


Fire, Smoke, and Magic: A Dragon Age 2 Retelling - Act 1

by TCRegan



Series: Fire, Smoke, and Magic [1]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Sex, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-06 12:51:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 74,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1107046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TCRegan/pseuds/TCRegan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A retelling of Dragon Age 2 from the point of view of Anders. Complies mostly with the overarching story, though plays fast and loose with the canon in parts, especially with Hawke's back story. Will be completed in three acts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Anders heard the heavy pounding of boots on stone behind him as he ran. The clink of armor and the shouts of the Templars followed him as he rounded a corner and leapt the stairs, landing in a crouched position. A wave of energy swept over him and he cursed his luck. The brief pause gave the Templars time enough to purge the area of magic again and the barrier he'd erected against physical harm dissipated. Justice scratched at his mind and he fought to maintain control. Losing himself now to awake with three dead Templars at his feet later would not make for a good start to his week.

_They'd deserve it._

But whether it was his thought or Justice's, he couldn't be sure. The only thing for it was to keep running and hope to lose them in Darktown or the sewers. Another wave of energy knocked him from his feet and he sprawled hard, staff clattering across the stone, rolling out of reach. Before he could move to defend himself against the imminent attack, a hooded figure dropped down in front of him.

Adorned in sleeveless robes the color of blood, a black leather belt cinched at his waist, the man wielded an ebony wood staff, twisted metal at the top wrapping around a forest green stone the size of a dragon egg. Faster than Anders had ever seen anyone cast, lightning leapt from the man's fingertips. He spun his staff, and Anders had only a moment to marvel at the technique before instinct kicked in and he rolled out of the path of the oncoming storm.

The screams of one of the Templars echoed in the night, a brilliant blaze of green light melting his armor, charring his flesh. He fell lifelessly to the ground, twitching from the residual electricity. The other two, seeing their companion's fate, turned to run. The hooded figure slammed the end of his staff to the ground, a ripple of ice spreading rapidly across the stone and up their legs. They flailed aimlessly in place. Another man dropped from the rooftops, his chain mail shimmering in the moonlight. He moved more quickly than any warrior Anders had seen. In three quick strokes it was over, blood pooling in a dark contrast against the white stone ground. The warrior wiped his blade on a Templar's cloak before sheathing it, an arc of arterial blood splatter decorating his chest and face.

"Are you all right?"

Anders turned. The mage approached cautiously and crouched to look at him. In the shadows, Anders couldn't make out anything more than the outline of the man's face. He accepted a hand up, noting the way the man's biceps flexed. Clearly he was seasoned in more than just magic. With the strength he possessed, Anders could imagine him easily laying a man flat with a single punch.

"I think that makes it two-one to me, Brother," the warrior said, grinning as he approached, wiping his face. He leaned against the alley wall, crossing his legs, and hooked his thumbs into his belt.

The mage pulled back his hood and Anders' breath caught. He'd never seen such a… handsome, rugged magic caster before. The first thing he noticed was a long scar that ran from the man's forehead, bisecting over his left eye, ending beneath the dark scruff on his square jaw. In the dark, the man's eyes looked dark green or maybe black, and the wind caught his shaggy jet hair, playing with it across his forehead. Anders resisted the urge to reach up and run his fingers through it, which would surely cause some awkward questions. He turned instead to look at the warrior. He was clean shaven, younger than his brother, with an irritating air of superiority.

"You only had them because of me," the mage said, the comment devoid of the simple playfulness his brother's had. His deep, gravelly tone made Anders shiver. Slinging his staff across his back, he turned to Anders. "They're vigilant here, the Templars." He nearly spat the word. "I'm glad they didn't catch you."

"Lovely. Another delicate mage flower," the warrior said sarcastically, crossing his arms. He eyed Anders' staff warily.

His brother said nothing, only glared. Though he used no magic, the warrior quelled under his icy stare and dropped his gaze. Anders brushed himself off, feeling slightly awkward. Clearly he had no place in the middle of a family spat. The mage stared only a moment longer at his brother before again turning to Anders.

"Do you have a safe place to stay tonight?"

Almost instinctively Anders wanted to say no, just to see if he'd be offered a room. He longed to stay by the other mage's side, completely enthralled by the man's strength. "I do," was what he said, however.

"Good." He tugged his hood back up. "Be careful." In a puff of shadowed smoke, he disappeared.

The warrior rolled his eyes. "Show off," he muttered before nodding at Anders. He took off at breakneck speed, no doubt hastened by his brother's spell crafting.

Shaken by the entire experience, how quickly and efficiently it had ended, Anders stood stunned for a moment. He picked up his staff, then rifled through the Templars' things. Several sovereigns meant he and many of his fellow refugees would eat that week, and the vials of lyrium would aid his healing. With a glance up the alley one last time, he too disappeared into the subterranean Darktown.

-

Three long weeks passed and Anders hadn't caught a glimpse of the mage or his brother. He started to wonder if it had all been a dream or a hallucination. Whispers of an apostate floated into his clinic, and the word was that he'd taken up with a man called Meeran of the Red Iron. Anders made discreet inquiries into who the mage was, but other than the fact that he and his family were Fereldan refugees, information was scarce. As much as it pleased him to find that this Meeran seemed reluctant to sell out his own, it frustrated him and made him all the more curious.

"Please!" a man shouted, bursting into the clinic. "Help my son!" He carried an unconscious boy in his arms, followed by a terrified looking woman. 

Anders stood at once, shaking out a sheet and spreading it over the table. "Here," he said, helping the man lay his son down. "When did his fever start?" Thoughts of the elusive apostate fled his mind as he focused his will, taking up his staff and passing it over the boy for an initial assessment.

"He was feeling sick last night," said the woman – presumably his mother. "And this morning he couldn't keep anything down. He passed out and broke into fever. We came straight away."

"Please, serah," the father begged.

Anders set his staff aside and closed his eyes, one hand on the boy's sweaty brow, the other on his chest. A warm blue glow emitted from his hands and he began to search. Infection? No open wounds. No internal bleeding. He licked his lips, calling upon an even greater spell. The source was there, not in the lungs or the heart, but the blood itself. Some type of poison, perhaps. Something the boy had eaten, maybe. Anders sucked in a breath, forcing the poison out, extracting it from his blood. It pooled like sweat, shimmery and black upon his skin. Using the edge of the sheet, he wiped it away. The boy moaned and twisted. Anders frowned and repeated the motion, passing both hands over the boy's head and chest. He felt the heat of the wretchedness, its horrible sting. It was impossible to say how long he stood there, removing more of the foul intoxicant with each pass, carefully wiping his skin with every extraction.

Finally, it was done.

Anders opened his eyes, feeling faint. He stumbled a bit, turning to lean against his desk. Head swimming, he pinched the bridge of his nose. A heavy hand touched his shoulder, and Anders heard the boy's father say something, gratitude through his tears. 

"Thank you," the woman breathed, cradling her son. "Oh, Maker bless you, serah."

He waved them off, declining their offer of coin and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. He would need to travel to Lowtown again soon to resupply his lyrium stores. He could go without, but healing ills like that left him drained, exhausted, and vulnerable. Suddenly he looked up, Justice alerting him to the intruders. Adrenaline took over and he grabbed his staff, turning quickly, expecting a fight.

He froze.

The mage. The one that saved him that night, the man he'd been asking after, stood before him. He wore the same sleeveless blood red robes. The sides were slit to his waist, revealing black leather breeches and matching black boots. His own staff remained on his back, and while his hands were spread in a gesture of peace, his expression remained hardened. Next to him stood a dwarf and behind them, the mage's warrior brother.

"Are you Anders, the Grey Warden?" the mage asked in the same deep tone Anders remembered.

Anders frowned, leaning on his staff. "Who's asking? I'm not going back." He paused, brow furrowing. "Those bastards made me give up my cat. Said he made me too soft." Sighing, he leaned his staff against the wall and sat on his desk. "Poor Ser Pounce-a-Lot. He hated the Deep Roads."

The mage exchanged a look with the dwarf, who shrugged. "No, we're not with the Wardens. We're actually looking for maps into the Deep Roads for an expedition we're planning. Any information you have could potentially save lives. As a healer," he added, gesturing.

Anders tore his eyes away from the muscled arms. Though the robes were sewn from thick cotton, they stretched across the man's chest, Anders' imagination filling in the rest. "I might have something that could help. Though…"

The mage raised an eyebrow. "We have the coin to pay for them."

Did the mage even recognize him? Technically, Anders thought, he could demand the maps as repayment for saving him. Though, there was something… "I'd prefer to trade in favors."

"We already helped you!" the warrior declared, an irritated edge to his tone.

_Well_ , Anders thought, _question answered._

"Carver." It was one word, spoken by his brother without so much as a glance backward, but it quieted Carver at once.

Anders suppressed a shiver. The power that man could wield with his voice. He wondered if it was a side effect of strong spell casting, since it didn't appear his brother shared the same trait.

"What favor?" he asked, his eyes never leaving Anders. 

Anders hesitated, not sure how much he wanted to give away. Though the man's stare was slightly unnerving, he found it difficult to look away. "A friend of mine might be in trouble. Another mage. I came to Kirkwall to find him and we'd been exchanging letters through a maidservant when they suddenly stopped. I think I can get a message to him, but meeting him might be dangerous."

"You need someone to watch your back?"

Anders nodded. "Do that and the maps are yours."

Silence for a moment, though Carver looked as though he wanted to say something. The dwarf shrugged and that seemed to seal the deal. The mage reached out, and Anders shook his hand, feeling a slight tingle of electricity as their fingers brushed.

"When?" he asked.

"I'll send for you," Anders said. "Maybe tomorrow night. Where can I find you?"

"We're staying with my uncle in Lowtown. Gamlen. Around the corner from the Alienage."

"I'll get a message to you when I need you," Anders assured him. The three turned to leave. "Wait," he called.

The mage turned back.

"What do I call you?"

"Hawke."

Anders watched them go. "Hawke," he whispered. Quickly he pushed away both name and face. Distraction would not do, not while he still had patients waiting.

-

He waited nervously in the shadows outside the Chantry. The boy he sent to deliver the message promised him that Hawke received it. Two hours he'd been there, surveying the area, waiting and watching. No one had gone in or out of the Chantry, but it was much too late for any respectable Hightown resident to be out walking the streets. He wiped his sweaty palms on his robes, and startled when he heard voices.

"Because I say so."

Hawke's voice was unmistakable. It had been on his mind and in his dreams. The dwarf laughed, said something he couldn't quite make out. Anders swallowed his anxiety and stepped from the shadows as they approached. The smile faded from Hawke's face. In an instant, he was all business.

"Karl should be just inside," Anders said. "I haven't seen anyone in a while, but it could still be a setup. I'll find him and you watch for Templars."

"Sounds easy enough," the dwarf said, shifting his crossbow on his back.

"Lead the way," Hawke said, gesturing. He pulled his hood up and shifted his staff from one hand to the other.

Anders nodded and pushed open the Chantry's door. Their footsteps echoed in the quiet. The giant statue of Andraste loomed over them, a silent judge watching their every movement. Anders gripped his staff, expecting to be greeted by a full company of Templars as he ascended the stairs. He relaxed when he recognized the familiar back of his former lover in the candlelight.

"Karl," he breathed, relieved.

"Anders, I'm glad you came."

Anders had reached forward, but stopped. Something was wrong, something was terribly, horribly wrong. "Karl?" he asked, his voice quavering. "What is it, why are you-" Karl turned around, and Anders heard his own voice as if cried by another, "No!"

"It's all right, Anders. The Templars will help you. You won't ever have to suffer again."

The mark of Tranquility on his forehead, his eyes dull and lifeless, and Anders realized with a sickening feeling that he was too late. Whatever piece of him that had made him Karl was gone forever. A burning filled his skull, his entire body aflame. Anders fell to his knees.

"This is the apostate."

Anders didn't see the Templars behind him, nor did he take note of the others' position. Justice burst forth, exploding into being. An unnatural rage filled him and he was powerless to stop as he stood, staff in hand. He rounded on the Templars. "You will never take another mage as you took him!"

The feeling intensified, a force greater than he'd ever experienced taking him over as Justice controlled his actions. He sent wave after wave of energy, knocking the Templars off their feet, then again as they tried to get up. Even though they were outnumbered two to one, the company was dispatched with ease. Casting spells from an infinite well of willpower and mana, Justice drew his ability directly from the Fade. The cacophony of battle echoed loudly and just as quickly was silenced. A dozen dead Templars lay unmoving on the ground. Those that hadn't been decimated by Justice were adorned with crossbow bolts, charred flesh, and sword wounds, evidence of his companions' assistance. Anders turned on Karl, his fury carrying him forward.

"Anders?"

But it wasn't the monotonous drone of a Tranquil. It was Karl's soft voice, filled with confusion and fear. Anders felt the power that Justice brought with him disappear in an instant, and he stumbled, gripping onto Karl's arms, looking into his eyes.

"Anders, what did you do?"

"I'm here. Karl, I'm so sorry."

Karl shook his head, eyes blinking as if he were trying to wake from a deep sleep. "It's like you brought a piece of the Fade into this world, burning so brightly. It was like a beacon. I reached for it and I-" He looked up, terrified. "Anders, it's horrible. It's like all the color and song just gone from the world. Everything is grey. I…" His eyes filled with tears. "Please, Anders. Please kill me. Before it fades again."

Anders felt his own tears stinging the corners of his eyes. Karl gripped desperately at him. A voice behind him, quiet and resolute.

"Do it," Hawke ordered. "Let him die remembering the mercy you gave him."

Karl leaned up and kissed Anders, and with it came a flood of memories. The Circle in Ferelden, the Tower, the lessons Karl taught him, the hot nights spent together in each other's arms. Tears streaming down his cheeks, he drew his blade and plunged it into Karl's stomach. Hot blood flowed from the wound, over his hand. Karl looked up at him, the light of life flickering from his face, but a smile upon his lips. He opened his mouth to speak, but fell, Anders lowering him slowly to the ground.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, closing his eyes. "Karl, I'm so sorry."

He removed the knife, staring down his former lover's lifeless body. Perhaps a minute passed. Perhaps an hour. A hand, solid and heavy, came to rest on his shoulder.

"We should go before more Templars come."

Anders nodded, sheathing his knife, and allowed Hawke to help him to his feet. Carver led the way, and the streets were mercifully clear. Feeling numb, hands shaking, Anders simply let himself be guided to Lowtown, down steps and around corners until he was brought into a hovel. A woman emerged from a back room.

"Carver!" she exclaimed, throwing herself into her son's arms. "Oh my boy, what happened? You're covered in blood!"

"We're fine, Mother. Just a fight."

"Come," Hawke whispered, guiding Anders into another room. "Varric, can you get me some water and a couple of clean cloths?"

The dwarf left, and Anders found himself sitting at a scrubbed wooden table. The room was spacious but mostly bare, a few crates and chests, burlap sacks piled against the walls. In the middle, the table where he sat, and a few chairs. He took it all in, compartmentalizing, trying to understand what just happened. When Justice took over, he usually couldn't remember anything. For some reason, this time, he was left with his memories intact. Karl, the mark of Tranquility, the fight. He looked down at his hands and was overcome with the sudden need to clean his lover's blood from them. Frantically he began wiping them on the table.

"Easy," Hawke said, grabbing his wrists.

Varric returned, setting a metal bucket and a pile of cloth down. "Need anything else?"

Hawke shook his head. "I'll take care of it. I'll meet you at the Hanged Man in a bit."

"If you're sure."

"We'll all need a drink after this."

Varric left, shutting the door behind him, and they were alone again. Anders lifted a shoulder, wiping his eyes against his pauldrons as Hawke cleaned the blood from his hands and knife. For a man possessing so much strength, he was surprisingly gentle.

"Thank you," Anders said, though his voice came out barely a whisper.

Hawke waved the gratitude aside. "That mage, Karl."

Anders frowned, looking away.

"They made him Tranquil. Why? He looked too old to be an apprentice."

"Karl was a good man," Anders said, eyes following a crack in the stone wall. He glanced out the high window, a cloudy moonless night. "And an accomplished enchanter. He would have likely been made First Enchanter of the Circle in Ferelden had he not been called away to help here."

"You're from Ferelden?"

"Not originally, but I was brought to the Circle when it was discovered I could use magic. I met Karl, he was a good teacher. He didn't deserve that."

The water in the bucket sloshed, the cloth stained pink with Karl's blood. Hawke moved both off the table before returning to sit next to Anders. He leaned forward, frowning. Anders looked down his hands, now clean, then up at Hawke.

"If he passed his Harrowing," Hawke said, "isn't it against the Circle's rules to make him Tranquil?"

Anders' hands curled into fists. "It's the Knight-Commander. She runs the city unchecked. Not even the viscount dares to oppose her. Orsino, the First Enchanter of Kirkwall's Circle, is a spineless slug of an elf. He has done nothing more than penned appeals to the Grand Cleric. She refuses to get involved and it's… it's…"

"Injustice."

Anders looked up, eyes locking on Hawke's. In the candlelight, he could see them clearly. Dark green, hardened. "Yes," he breathed.

"They will pay," Hawke said. "Not just for Karl, but for every mage they hurt. I'll see to it personally."

A silent understanding passed between them, and Anders felt his rage dissipate. "It's so rare to meet someone like you."

Hawke tilted his head slightly.

"Another who feels as deeply as I do for the crimes committed against mages. Everyone seems content, oblivious to our struggles. They hold the Chantry's views that mages are meant to be feared. That we can't be trusted with our powers. The Fereldan Circle was tame compared to what goes on here. Here, they house their mages in an old slave prison – that should tell you something." His fists clenched, jaw tightening. He waited for Hawke to stop him, to justify the Templars and their treatment. But when Hawke remained silent, Anders continued. "I've never met a mage who wanted rule over man. Mostly we just want to be left alone. To pursue our own path, forge a life without having to worry if we'll be beaten or raped or killed by Templars." His voice rose, even and angry now. "We just want to walk the streets without being terrified that any children we have might be ripped from us. That we can have friends and family without the Chantry threatening to jail them or anyone who associates with us or helps us. It's a fight that we must win. We must!"

"Your eyes."

Anders looked away. He'd let Justice get too close to the surface. Of course Hawke would notice, as no doubt he noticed what happened in the Chantry. "I'm sorry."

"Tell me. I've never see that before."

Anders shook his head. If he told Hawke, if Hawke thought him an abomination, there would be trouble. Knowing what he did about Hawke, and that was admittedly very little, Anders doubted he would be dragged before the Knight-Commander. He doubted also that Hawke would kill him. However, it was almost certain that Hawke would order him to go, possibly and probably never speak to him again. Despite only having met him twice before, Anders felt a strong pull toward him. A fellow mage who understood what was happening, who commiserated with him on the plight of other mages. A friend. It had been a long time since he had someone like that, and he didn't want to lose it.

Hawke frowned, leaning back, resting his elbow on the table, cheek against his fist. For a moment he said nothing, and then, "I lost my sister to Templars."

"I… I'm sorry," Anders said, taken aback by the sudden confession. "Was she a mage as well?"

"Yes." Hawke sighed, fingers unfurling, rubbing at his forehead as if trying to massage the memory away. "I was eighteen; she and Carver had just turned eleven."

Anders opened his mouth to say something, but Hawke held up a hand. Why was he telling him this? Was it to gain his sympathy? Anders had nothing but compassion for his fellow mage, regardless of the story. He even pitied Orsino to a point. Too used to Irving's fortitude, a person like Orsino simply made Anders angrier. Bastard though he was, Irving regularly stuck his neck out to protect his charges, making sure every Templar who overstepped his bounds was held equally responsible as any mage that broke the rules. He remembered being dragged back to the tower, having one of his arms broken by the Templar who tracked him. Irving had seen to it that the man was forced into leave without pay for a time.

Not compassion that Hawke was seeking, not sympathy. Perhaps something else, then.

"We were apostates from birth. My father was here," Hawke said, nodding at the far wall, toward the direction of the docks and subsequently the Gallows. "Malcolm Hawke. He met my mother, a noblewoman, and they ran off, fugitives from the law."

"How romantic," Anders said, quite sincerely. He had a newfound respect for Hawke's mother. Not many would give up nobility to marry for love, and fewer still would do that for an apostate.

"They ran to Ferelden. My childhood was a blur of moving around, keeping ahead of the Templars, learning who we could trust, which were few and far between. I was eighteen," Hawke said again. "We were outside Highever. Maybe we'd gotten complacent, living on a small farm. Thought we were safe. Even paid taxes. But someone… a neighbor of ours, had a cousin who was a Templar out of the Highever Chantry. She told him, and he came looking for us. Of course there was no proof. My father taught Bethany and I how to hide our magic. To the outside world, we were simple farmers who emigrated from the Free Marches, looking for a better life."

Anders watched as Hawke stood, pacing the length of the room. Back and forth he stalked, shoulders rounded as he leaned forward, hands gesturing as he spoke.

"He caught up with Bethany. Harlod was his name. I'll never forget. She went to draw water from the spring. He found her there, alone. Normally we wouldn't let her go by herself, but Carver decided he would rather hunt than help. I heard her screaming as I was walking down the path. I ran toward her. My little sister, just a girl. That… animal over top of her." He stopped pacing and looked up, fury etched into every line in his face. "She was eleven, and he took her innocence."

Anders let out a breath, looking down to wipe away his tears. He'd heard stories of young mages both boys and girls suffering at the hands of the Templars. More and more rumors floated around every day in Kirkwall, and the Templars worked ever harder to quiet it. This was the first first-hand account he'd heard from the mouth of someone who witnessed it.

"I knocked him back, away from her. Then I set him ablaze. I can hear his screams. But I only care about hers. Hers are the ones that haunt my nightmares. Once I made sure he'd never touch another mage, I helped Bethany back to the house. Mother… was broken. Father found out. He figured out who told. We had to move. So we did."

Anders waited for more of the story, but it didn't come. Gently, he prodded. "What happened to your sister?"

"She killed herself."

The statement was spoken so matter-of-factly that it took Anders aback. "That's… I'm so sorry, Hawke."

"It was a long time ago. But I see his face on every Templar. I trained harder to learn to be faster and stronger. I've built up my attunement to the Fade so I could protect my family. When the Blight hit Ferelden, we ran again. We came here, to Mother's home. Only…" He trailed off. "Circumstances forced my hand. Which is why I need to go to the Deep Roads on this expedition. It's our only chance to get back what was taken from my mother when she left. And," he said, striding back to the table, leaning down so he was eye level with Anders, "you can help."

Hawke was so close, Anders could see the scar more intricately now. A dagger perhaps, a vicious cut. He flinched when Hawke raised a hand, but it wasn't in anger. Instead, it came to rest on his shoulder, and Anders relaxed. He smelled of blood and something else, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. Perhaps a lingering remnant of a spell.

"Tell me what you did in the Chantry."

Justice clawed at the corners of his brain. "It's a long story."

"We've got time."

Anders sighed. How could he not tell him? After that story, after Hawke practically bared his soul, all his pain, and laid it right out there in the open. Hawke was asking him to trust, and he'd made the first move. To push that away, to cut off that hand, would be foolish. He nodded, and Hawke retook his seat, waiting.

"When I was in the Wardens, I was on a mission in the Fade. There's a place in Amarathine where the Veil had been torn open. It was so weak, you could almost just step through. I met a spirit."

Hawke's mouth tightened into a thin line.

"It's not what you think," Anders said. "He was a benevolent spirit. Justice. When we left, he was stranded here, outside his world. He took over the body of a man we'd been searching for. After his duty was over, I offered him myself. I thought… a willing host. It had to be better than haunting a corpse like some demon."

"Foolish," Hawke said. He paused, still frowning. "But well-intentioned."

Anders flinched, twisting his hands in his lap. "At first it was fine. He and I spoke at length; we talked about how to change the world for mages. I wasn't always as passionate about mage rights. I was too tired. Too wrapped in my own feelings of persecution. But he changed me." Anders felt a welling of guilt twisting in his stomach. "And I suppose… I changed him as well," he added. "I had so much anger. I didn't even realize how angry I was. The more we spoke, the more our thoughts became one. He… evolved. And when he comes out, he's no longer my friend Justice, but a force of vengeance, great and terrible."

Hawke surveyed him with cool, steely eyes, and Anders wished he couldn't feel them boring into his very soul. He braced himself for the inevitable fallout.

"I'll explain it to Carver and Varric," Hawke said at last. "Do you think that you can control him? Justice," he clarified.

Anders frowned, confused. "You're not turning me away? Kicking me out?"

"It's a stupid thing," Hawke said, "what you did. But it's done. And you did it to achieve a means to an end. I would be hypocritical if I said I disagreed with it. Mages backed into corners resort to whatever means they have necessary."

Something rang wrongly. "Are you talking about blood magic? You're not-"

Hawke shook his head. "Someone I… knew."

"I'm sorry." He found himself apologizing quite a bit, but wasn't sure what else to say. Anders knew it would be tactless to lecture against blood magic, and even perhaps foolish to chastise his potential friend right now.

"It happened a long time ago. It's over with."

The silence stretched and soon became awkward. Anders mulled over a decision in his mind. Hawke was going to the Deep Roads. He would likely be gone for weeks. Was he really so eager to let someone like him slip from his grasp? When friends were so hard to find, when oppression and danger was everywhere? He'd have to leave his patients if he went, but getting out of Kirkwall for a while might do him some good. And it would mean weeks with Hawke in closed quarters. An opportunity to… talk.

Anders stood quickly. "If you want… I'll come with you. To the Deep Roads."

"Didn't you leave the Wardens to get away from that?" Hawke asked, looking up.

"I did. But I think maybe we should stick together. You could use a spirit healer, right?" he asked hopefully. Hawke could shoot him down; decide that he was a liability.

Hawke turned the idea over. "We could use an extra hand. And you'd be paid a percentage of any profits we make. I've almost got enough coin scraped together for it."

"I'll bring the maps when we're ready. You'll come and find me at my clinic, won't you?"

Hawke stood, gesturing toward the door. Anders followed. The main room was thankfully empty.

"I will. Did you want to come to the Hanged Man for a drink? You could tell Varric yourself about Justice."

Anders shook his head vehemently. "No. Look, I don't mean to put this on you, and I understand that it's unfair to leave him and your brother out of the loop. The only reason I even think they should know is because they saw it and they'll have questions. They're… not like you, Hawke."

A hint of a smile tugged at Hawke's lip before it disappeared as quickly. "Varric's got other problems to worry about. The last thing on his list is another apostate. Carver…" he glanced back the other door. "I'll talk to him."

Anders found himself very glad not to be on the receiving end of Hawke's idea of 'talking.' His tone implied that talking might not even be the right word to use. He followed Hawke out of the hovel and down the stairs. The Hanged Man was only a few blocks away, in the opposite direction of the fastest entrance to Darktown.

"Until we meet again," Hawke said, reaching out. "I'll be as discreet as I can with them. And I'll keep an ear out for where they bury your friend."

Anders nodded, gripping his hand. "Thank you, Hawke, for everything."

"I'm afraid I didn't do much."

"It was enough just to have someone to talk to."

Hawke's eyes softened, and he smiled ever so slightly. "That," he said, "I understand."

Anders watched him walk away, toward the tavern. He turned on his heel and hurried toward the docks. Though his plan to help Karl had gone horribly wrong, the pain had lessened somewhat. The grieving process would still be a long time coming, but having a friend like Hawke would help his mourning. Not to mention, he thought, he would need his wits about him if he really was heading into the Deep Roads again.

Maker, he thought, he could only pray that Hawke and the others knew what they were doing.


	2. Chapter 2

Two weeks later and Anders had neither heard word of nor seen Hawke. He looked for him in Lowtown and around the docks, even braved the Hanged Man before realizing he must've been mistaken about their friendship. Maybe Hawke decided it was too much trouble after all, that the mages' plight in Kirkwall wasn't his business because he was Fereldan. After the expedition, he would return home and forget about Anders entirely. Anders returned regularly to the alley behind Hawke's apartment in Lowtown, each time wondering if he shouldn't just knock. But what if Hawke wasn't home? Or worse, what if he was? Or worse still, what if Carver answered? Anders didn't have an excuse for calling on Hawke other than wanting to see him, and somehow he thought that explanation wouldn't be good enough. That he still had the Deep Roads maps in his possession was the only thing giving him comfort. If Hawke wanted them for the expedition, he would eventually have to seek him out to retrieve them.

Or, he thought bitterly, he'd send someone else in order to avoid seeing him.

He tried to focus on his work instead. A few weeks in Kirkwall and he'd made a name for himself among the refugees. Unfortunately that attracted unwanted attention, and he wasn't able to keep the doors of his clinic open with regular hours anymore. To avoid being tracked down, he made house calls, if one could call them that. His nights consisted of travelling Darktown and the docks, meeting patients in warehouses and dark alleys. Twice he narrowly escaped capture while returning to his clinic, only just managing to lose his Templar tails by ducking into the sewers.

Anders wanted someone to blame for the increase in Templar activity near his dwelling, but knew it was useless to lay that fault at any refugee's feet. It wasn't as though he expected his patients to remain loyal with the Templars threatening their lives. As far as Kirkwallers who'd turn him in, the refugees had driven up the prices of bread, supply and demand dangerously skewed. A promise of a few silvers and they would happily give information to the Templars who could remove one more Fereldan dog.

The door to his clinic shook with a bang, dust cascading from the wood in a dirty puff. He pushed himself from his desk, grabbing up his staff. It was a simple spell that caused his skin to shimmer with a silvery light, and a little concentration to maintain it. He fortified the shield with a sip of lyrium before slowly approaching the door. Templars wouldn't break it down without a full company at their disposal for fear of Coterie or Carta thugs. Darktown was hardly important enough to merit that many men; it was where the dregs of society ended up, people no one else cared about. Slavers also would be deterred by the locked door, always on the lookout for easier prey.

But what if someone had tipped off Ser Karras – the Templar lieutenant who'd been vying for a captain's spot. Then Anders would have to make a quick decision. Ambitious Templars were the worst; he much preferred the lazy ones. The door shook again with another, louder knock.

"I told you, he's not here."

Anders frowned. He knew that voice, arrogant and slightly whiny.

"My sources aren't wrong, Junior."

And that was Varric for sure. Anders reached for the latch, but stopped when he heard a third voice, different than the others, deeper but definitely not Hawke's. The accent was difficult to place.

"This is a waste of time."

"Calm down, both of you," Varric sighed. "Hey, Blondie? Mind letting us in? We gotta talk about your… expertise and it's getting a bit lonely on your doorstep."

Anders hesitated but lifted the latch. He had nothing to fear from Varric at least. Pushing the door open a crack, he looked down to see the dwarf grinning up at him.

"About time."

Anders looked for the source of the third voice and found him standing just behind Carver. An elf, white haired and surly looking, dressed in spiky Tevinter armor. His appearance was quite striking, strange markings marring his skin. Anders could feel the power radiating from them… lyrium? But who would embed lyrium into their skin like that? Sensing the scrutiny, the elf crossed his arms, lifting his chin a bit.

"It's rude to stare, mage," he stated, aggravated.

Ah, Anders thought. So it was to be like that. He'd met too many mage-haters in his lifetime to be completely offended, but for some reason the presence of the elf rankled him more than most. Perhaps because he was standing on his doorstep, using 'mage' as an insult, and apparently familiar with Varric and Carver. Did Hawke send him along with them to ask him a favor? Did Hawke know the elf apparently hated mages? He hoped there was an explanation that made sense.

"Yes?" he asked, directing his attention back to Varric.

"You up for a job? Hawke seemed to think it was right up your alley."

Anders' stomach twisted at the mention of Hawke, and he fought to keep his expression neutral. Hawke had thought about him for a job. Maybe he'd just been busy the last two weeks, instead of ignoring him purposefully as Anders feared. "What does he need?" he asked, trying not to sound too eager.

"Woman from the alienage is worried about her son. He's a mage, recently started having trouble with his dreams. She contacted a Templar but the kid's run off. She asked us to track him down. Up for some walking?"

An elven mage. The boy's troubles were exponential then. That Hawke had decided to help him and his mother reaffirmed to Anders that he was a good man. Elves living in the alienage were at the height of poverty, and such a task wasn't likely to yield much - if any - coin. And if there was a chance to keep the boy from harm and from the Circle, Anders would need to be there.

"Of course. Let me get a few things."

He left them on his doorstep and quickly stocked a leather pouch with the last of his liquid lyrium and several herbs. Folding the pages of his latest work into a leather-bound book, he wrapped that in burlap and tucked it into a crevasse in the wall. Task complete, he slung his staff across his back and rejoined them, letting his shield spell diminish.

"You are aware, Varric," said the elf, "that two apostates walking into the Gallows to seek information about a third is a terribly foolish thing to do."

Anders locked the door from the outside, and let Varric lead the way through the twisting tunnels of Darktown. He ignored the derision in the elf's tone and focused on the possibility of seeing Hawke again. Shaking his head slightly, he reminded himself that it wouldn't be prudent to let his mind wander in that direction. Still, as long as he kept his realizations in check and didn't hope for more, there was no harm simply thinking about him. Right?

"I'm sure Hawke knows what he's doing," Varric said confidently. 

"My task was to deliver him to the Hanged Man, nothing more. I do not wish to be part of a ridiculous idea that involves questioning Templars for the whereabouts of a dangerous mage, while in the company of two other dangerous mages."

Carver laughed. "Anders is hardly dangerous."

Anders tightened his grip on his staff, imagining setting the boy's head on fire. But, he reasoned, Hawke would likely prefer his sibling in one unburned piece. The thought was extremely tempting, however.

"Then you take it up with Hawke when we get to the Hanged Man," Varric said patiently, though at the edge of his voice, Anders could hear a tinge of exasperation.

The elf tsked, but said nothing else. Even with the immediate mutual dislike, Anders had to wonder if he had a point. Were they going to the Gallows to question Templars? Was Hawke absolutely insane to want to walk head first into the hornet's nest, poking it violently with a stick? What would that accomplish exactly? Though robes and staves were hardly exclusive to mages, and neither he nor Hawke wore anything to identify them as enchanters of a Circle, keeping a low profile was preferable to taking on Templars directly. Still, he wasn't going to question Hawke's motives, not until he could speak to him personally.

Varric pushed open the door to the Hanged Man and Anders looked around, only having been inside twice before. It was too crowded for him, too many people that could potentially identify him as an apostate. Tonight was no exception. Across the dimly lit room, he saw Hawke sitting in the corner, leaning over a table, shuffling papers. His heartbeat quickened and he found his thoughts shifting again to the possibilities of calling Hawke more than just a friend. Almost viciously that notion was dismissed. Justice, perhaps, keeping him focused on the task at hand.

They approached his table, Carver taking a seat and immediately pouring himself a drink. Hawke glanced first at his brother, his expression unreadable. Carver scowled and threw back the whiskey anyway, then suppressed a cough. Hawke shook his head and looked up at the others, eyes falling on Anders. Perhaps it was just Anders' imagination, but he thought he saw the edges of Hawke's lips curl up into a smile, if only just slightly. It was gone before he spoke.

"So Varric told you the plan?"

"The basics," Anders replied, pleased that his tone was aloof. Not so much as a, 'Hello, how are you?' or anything else. He supposed he should be thankful that Hawke was direct, all business. But acknowledgement of the lack of contact over the past two weeks would have been nice.

"Hawke, I can't be a part of this," the elf stated. "I appreciate what you've done for me, but I request that I be left out."

Hawke turned a calculating eye toward him before waving a hand. "It's not your affair, Fenris, and you don't have to answer to me."

Fenris shifted, and Anders felt ambivalent to the decision. On one hand, he was pleased to not have to work with him. On the other, Hawke must have done something to aid him, otherwise why would Fenris have agreed to deliver him to the Hanged Man? He wore his hatred of mages on his sleeve, and Anders instantly regretted not being a fly on the wall to Hawke's first meeting him. He imagined a smoldering confrontation in which Hawke threatened to turn him into a toad. This likely wasn't anywhere near the truth, and more reasonably, Hawke helped him out of a tight situation. It seemed to be his modus operandi.

"I do apologize. I believe-" Fenris began, but Hawke interrupted him with a raised eyebrow. "You know where to find me if you need anything else," he concluded, with a slight bow.

Hawke nodded, and Fenris turned on his heel, weaving through the crowd. Hawke stood, straightening his papers and handing them to Varric.

"The sooner we go see Thrask, the sooner we find Feynriel and get him the help he needs."

Carver sighed but stood once again. "I don't see why this is our affair."

Taking up his staff, Hawke led them from the tavern, heading in the direction of the docks. "If you don't like it, go home," he said curtly.

Anders smiled, glad he was walking behind the other three. The simple way Hawke dealt with his brother reminded him of Irving a bit and how the First Enchanter would speak to Templars who tried to pretend they were better than the mages they were guarding. Carver obviously did not take this treatment well, but said nothing, only kicking his feet against the stone a bit like a petulant child. Other than their obvious physical similarities, they couldn't have been more different. Having to fight against a personal struggle, it seemed, matured a person much faster than if the world were handed to you along with a shiny sword.

"Are we safe going to the Gallows?" Anders asked gently. The last thing he wanted was for Hawke to be annoyed with him. "It's a place I rather like avoiding."

Hawke glanced back briefly before turning to the former prison, nodding. "It's late enough that Templars won't be about in droves. And they can't arrest without proof. Not yet, anyway," he added.

Anders wouldn't put a copper on that bet. He felt nauseous as he climbed aboard the ferry, Varric paying the captain. The sun had already set behind the high mountain that surrounded Kirkwall. Looming in the distance he saw the Twins, two giant statues that marked the entrance of Kirkwall's docks, covering their faces. Anders suppressed a shiver, remembering his trip into the city not too long ago, being packed into a cargo ship like sardines with dozens of other refugees. He saw the city approach through a very small porthole and wished he hadn't been so curious. The statues were oppressively creepy.

They had no trouble going through to the docks, the smuggler captain having a much easier time of it than passenger ships. Still, the boat was searched, the city guard stomping overhead, pulling up crate lids. Mothers kept hands over their children's mouths while people clutched nervously at their meager belongings. Anders had brought only his staff and a small pack of keepsakes he couldn't bear to part with when he fled Amaranthine. 

Six days they spent on the ship, and even the stink of rotting fish and sewage was a welcome one when the smugglers finally opened their hidden trap door. Anders knew he'd been lucky not to be one of the many refugees that likely ended up being sold into slavery. Or worse, not escape the Blight at all. After disembarking the ship under the cover of darkness, they scattered like roaches. Many went underground and Anders remembered recognizing a few as he traversed Darktown. He preferred it to any other place in the city despite the smell and the cold. His clinic's wide open windows allowed a salty breeze, though he knew he'd have to find a new place come winter.

A hand on his shoulder startled him. He jumped, head snapping around. Hawke frowned apologetically.

"If you want to wait in the ferry," he said, keeping his voice down so that neither Carver nor Varric could hear, "you can stay to keep watch."

"Keep watch for what?" Anders said, trying to laugh off his apprehension. "The fish? I trust you."

He felt himself smiling as Hawke's expression softened, and returned the slight nod. Either everything would go according to plan or it would all fall to shit. That seemed to be the two extremes that summed up Anders' life nicely. While the island where the Gallows sat wasn't nearly as large as the one that housed Ferelden's Circle, it was much more ominous than the tower. Built as a prison, it looked like one. Three large buildings comprising the bulk of it, Anders wondered how the slaves must have felt, being ferried to and from it every day.

The boat pitched, and Anders felt his stomach roil. He never liked the sea, and while the bay was much more calm here than past the cliffs, the combination of nerves and the salt air made him heave. Carver's laughter rang in his ears as he gripped the wooden side of the ferry, emptying what little he had in his stomach. There was a soft thud as fist met stomach, and Carver's, "Oof!" only made him feel slightly better. Hawke's hand was on him again, burning through his tunic. Anders wondered if it was a spell, or the man's natural heat.

The ferry captain sighed. "Best not mess the side of my boat or I'll charge you extra," he grunted.

The clink of coins. Varric's voice. "For the inconvenience. We'll only be a few minutes, messere."

Anders spat, standing and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Hawke was still looking at him. He shrugged a bit. “Ocean’s never agreed with me,” he explained.

It wasn’t the whole truth, and by the expression on Hawke’s face, Anders knew he understood that. However, he didn’t press, and the four of them disembarked. Varric led the way down the pier, under the double iron gate and up the stairs. Twilight had fallen, stars starting to sparkle in the sky. Candles began to appear in the windows high above them, Templars studying their vigils or mages researching for their next class. Anders remembered the tower where he grew up and how dark it was. The apprentice quarters had no windows, and the basement dungeons were dark and damp. The Gallows were nice in comparison. For a prison.

The courtyard wasn’t empty, but the silence was eerie. The market squares in Kirkwall proper were always noisy, even at closing time. Here, the Tranquils moved carefully and quietly, packing things into chests, not saying a word. Templar recruits watched over them, a wary eye on their charges. The entire affair was-

“Creepy,” Varric muttered. “Let’s find your Thrask and get moving.”

Anders silently agreed. Though he suspected the plight of magekind was irrelevant to a dwarf, it bolstered him to hear the assessment spoken aloud. There were some to which being made tranquil was thought a mercy. Anders knew there were worse things than death. The memory of Karl begging him for an end filled his ears and he closed his eyes for a moment to will it away. His head spun.

“There,” Hawke said, and he took off with purposeful strides.

A Templar with long red hair leaned against one of the Gallows' many statues, this one of a slave on his knees, looking up toward the heavens, hands clasped together. A sickening mockery of their struggle. The Tevinter magisters knew what they were doing when they commissioned such things. Anders held back, watching Hawke step up to Thrask.

“Can I help you, serah?” Thrask asked, straightening. “The market’s closed for the evening and I’m afraid our recruits can’t have guests outside of visiting hours.”

No mention of mages having visitors, Anders noted. Not that he was surprised. He’d never met any mage who wasn’t an apostate who’d seen their family again after joining the Circle. And apostates who ran back to their families after escaping were far and few between. It was too risky to put them in danger when Templars could come knocking at their doors, threatening harm or ruin if they didn’t turn in their fugitive family member.

“I’m here about Feynriel, actually,” Hawke said, arms folded across his chest. He shifted his weight, legs spread evenly.

Anders recognized the stance of a seasoned fighter. Hawke would get the information he needed, and if it resorted to violence, he would be ready. Though he was relieved that there was a Plan B should things go terribly wrong, he desperately hoped Plan A went off without a hitch. Fighting his way out of the Gallows was the last thing he really wanted to do at the moment.

“I wasn’t aware the boy’s name was so well known,” Thrask replied, raising an eyebrow. He appraised Hawke, then the others, eyes stopping on Anders for a moment before addressing Hawke once more. “What can I help you with?”

“His mother said she talked to you about bringing him to the Circle. That the boy was a mage and likely in danger. She said you had come to collect him but he’d left already, run away. Do you have any other information?”

Thrask frowned, stroking his beard. It was a moment before he spoke, apparently making up his mind about their group. “A former Templar named Samson might know more. He was discharged for aiding mages.”

Anders couldn’t help himself. “A templar aiding mages?”

“I'm surprised it's not something you’re familiar with,” Thrask said, but he sounded sympathetic.

Immediately Anders regretted opening his mouth. It was an acknowledgment of his own status, but Thrask had not pulled a sword, nor cast a cleansing. Anders reached out and felt his connection to the Fade quite as clearly as he could always. It was a shallow relief.

“Where can we find him?” Hawke asked.

“Why do you want to find Feynriel?” Thrask’s tone bordered accusatory. “There’s no bounty.”

“We have a mutual interest in staying alive and demonless,” Hawke stated.

Carver threw up his hands dramatically. “Tell the whole city. It's not as though we don't have enough trouble already on our plates."

"Begging your pardon, serah,” Thrask said, interrupting, “the staves and robes aren’t exactly the most subtle."

Anders gritted his teeth. Though Thrask seemed to pose no immediate danger, his willingness to accept that there were Templars out there that wanted to help mages flee the Circle was nil. More likely they believed Feynriel was a danger to himself and needed to be contained for ‘his own protection.’ The paternalism of the Templars toward his fellow mages was almost more sickening than the hatred and fear of mages from the same group.

“If you’re turning us in, turn us in,” Hawke growled. “But the boy could be in danger and you’re delaying our investigation. We’re likely Feynriel’s best chance of survival. Tell us where we can find Samson.”

Thrask’s mouth thinned and his eyes hardened. He clearly didn’t take kindly to being spoken to in such a way, but he said nothing to Hawke’s rudeness. “He’ll be at the docks, likely looking for anyone who can supply him with lyrium. Unfortunately the addiction only grows worse with every day it's not ingested.”

“My heart bleeds,” Anders intoned, then bit his tongue. He glanced upward innocently as Thrask tossed him a dirty look.

"Thank you," said Hawke diplomatically, before the tension could escalate. "We'll let you know if it leads to anything."

Anders pursed his lips, rocking on his heels slightly when Thrask turned his attention back to Hawke again. Old habits died hard, and when he'd been an apprentice, his goal was to drive as many Templars insane with his mocking sarcasm as he could. He liked to think that the senior enchanters appreciated it, saying all the things that they wished they could. Hawke and Thrask actually shook hands and the four of them turned to leave the Gallows.

"Do you think his information's worth anything?" Varric asked as they piled into the ferry.

"We'll see," Hawke said. "It shouldn't take too long to find him. I have enough coin and lyrium to bribe him if need be."

"Or," said Carver, "we could just threaten to set his hair on fire."

Varric shook his head incredulously. "I'm starting to see why you make friends everywhere you go, Junior."

Anders smirked. Varric apparently shared his distaste for the younger Hawke sibling. He was just a bit more gentle about putting him in his place than Anders would have been. By the time they reached the docks, night had fully fallen. Hightown sparkled above them like so many glittery gems, looking almost as bright as the stars themselves. Families would be settling down for dinner to discuss their days and make fake polite conversation about how lovely it was that so-and-so's daughter was finally getting married to what's-his-name. The docks were a different story, and Anders found he vastly preferred it down here. Dockhands were finishing their work, shouting to one another, exchanging crude remarks. It was more real down here where propriety was a lost art, one to which survival took precedence over.

"We should split up," Hawke decided as he surveyed the area. "Two go east and two go west. We search the rows north to south and up again from the middle out and meet back here in an hour. Varric, I trust you can watch my brother?"

Anders' heart skipped a beat. Alone with Hawke for at least an hour, combing the streets in the dark? He tried not to show his excitement. _You're getting too close,_ a voice whispered. It might have been Justice or his own conscience. He couldn't tell any longer. Regardless, he pushed it away. They were on a mission, he rationalized. And if they found Samson, they would likely find the boy.

"Bianca's got his back, no worries," Varric assured him, patting his crossbow.

"I don't need a babysitter," Carver snapped.

Hawke turned his scrutinizing gaze to his brother. Carver held it, both of them staring at one another as if daring the other to blink. It passed in an instant; Carver dropped his eyes, wearing an expression of utter disgust. He stomped off, and Varric, shaking his head, followed.

"Brotherly love?" Anders quipped.

Hawke pulled his hood up, sighing. "Let's go."

Maybe he shouldn't have said anything, Anders thought. He followed Hawke, falling into step with him as they walked the rows. He kept his silence, glancing as surreptitiously as he could at Hawke from the corner of his eye. With his hood up, Anders couldn't see his face. He supposed it accented his personality, a bit mysterious, quiet. The robes were a constant source of intrigue to him. He'd never seen any quite that style, especially in Ferelden where the summers were cool and the winters brutal. He wondered if Hawke would still be wearing them come the end of the year, or if he'd choose practicality over fashion.

"What?"

Anders startled. "What?" he asked, looking around. Had Hawke seen something? Perhaps they were lucky and Samson was simply at the end of the row. But the alley was deserted.

"You were staring at me."

"Was I?"

Hawke looked at him, not stopping in his stride. Anders noted that Hawke had to look up a bit, that he was just a few inches taller than Hawke. It made sense; the man's build was short and stocky, muscled, while Anders was taller and lean, almost lanky. He simply hid it better, under several layers.

"Fine."

One word spoken so sharply, it gave Anders pause. He hadn't wanted to anger Hawke or annoy him. "I was just thinking," he said apologetically, "about what we're going to do when we find Samson."

It was a lie, but a good one, and Hawke was none the wiser. He remained silent for a bit, and Anders felt relief at avoiding an awkward conversation. Hawke witnessed his final goodbye with Karl – the memory made his heart ache – so there would be no doubt that Hawke was aware of his proclivities toward other men. In truth, Anders preferred intelligence, strength, and focused on personality over what a person happened to have between their legs.

He stamped on _that_ thought before it ran away with his imagination.

"Templars don't leave the order willingly most of the time," Hawke said finally. "They retire to Val Royeaux where lyrium is hand-fed to them while they grow soft and die on feather beds."

"You have experience with this?" Anders was unable to keep the amusement from his voice.

Hawke turned the corner, and Anders followed. "No. Just met a lot of Templars. Not by choice. This Samson was discharged for helping mages. It's not a stain that the Knight-Commander would suffer gladly. Most likely he was kicked out without any kind of supply to keep him sustained. I would wager he'd spill his information for a vial."

"Lyrium's hard to come by," Anders observed. "Especially for a mage. Not many people would willingly sell it to a former Templar, either. Not without expecting a lot of coin in return."

"It's plentiful if you know where to look. And if you have a trusty dwarf at your side."

"Was that a joke?" Anders asked incredulously. "Did you just make a joke?"

Hawke snorted. "It's been known to happen from time to time."

Anders nearly skipped down the alley, laughing a bit. "Here I thought you were all mystery and muscle." He bit his tongue quickly. It was going to get him into trouble. Luckily, Hawke didn't seem to catch on.

"I've been told I'm quite pleasant to be around once you get to know me."

Anders desperately wanted to get to know him. However, he knew better than to say as much, and was about to change the subject when he saw a figure at the end of the row, talking to a dockworker. "I think that might be our man," he muttered, squinting.

"Just a snort of the dust!"

"Get off me, you loon."

"Definitely seems like it," Hawke said, quickening his pace.

Anders hurried after, watching as Hawke slid himself between the two men, the smaller of whom had been getting too close to the dockworker, as if he was intending on searching the man's pockets for lyrium. The dockworker scowled.

"I've business with him," Hawke said. "You have a problem with him, you have one with me."

Though the man towered over Hawke – he was really quite short, Anders realized – he took one look at Hawke's staff, ominous and shimmery in the moonlight, and thought better.

"Blight take you," he swore, and turned on his heel.

"Fereldan trash!" Samson spat after him. "See what you get for taking our jobs! Oh thank you, messere, I owe you," he said, stepping back, rubbing his own arm almost violently. A nervous tic, a symptom of the withdrawal.

Hawke made sure the dockworker was indeed leaving before turning to Samson. He was a wisp of a man, his days-old scruff patchy, hair tousled and greasy, hanging in his eyes which were bloodshot. Dark circles lined underneath. Clearly this was a man who wasn't in the throes of Templar-level health.

"I'm looking for information about a boy you might have helped escape the city," Hawke said.

Right to the point, direct. Anders appreciated that about him. Samson scratched at his neck and tilted his head, as if trying to understand what Hawke was saying.

"Eh? A boy?"

Hawke reached into his pocket, pulling out a small vial. The light blue liquid sloshed, and Anders saw Samson's eyes widen. He reached for it, but Hawke pulled it out of his grasp, grabbing the front of his shirt to keep him from toppling over.

"The boy, Feynriel."

"Give it here!"

"The information first."

Samson flailed, trying to grab the lyrium, but Hawke was much stronger, holding him at arm's length now. Anders' temper flared and he darted forward, grabbing Samson by the throat, slamming him back against the wall.

"You will tell us where the boy is," he commanded, his voice deeper, reverberating. Justice was quickly losing patience.

Samson whined, looking away. "I told him. I told him I couldn't take no mageling without coin. I help one for free and I'm out of business forever."

Anders felt his disgust for the man rising very quickly. "I pity any mage who has to run to you for help. Where did he go?" And when Samson hesitated, he slammed him back against the wall again.

"I know a guy! R-Reiner. Smuggler. Sent the boy to 'im, sent a girl just the other day."

He didn't like the sound of that. While some smugglers were fine with moving people, the Imperium's hold on Kirkwall was still much too tight. He'd heard rumors of the Imperium's slavers, especially in Darktown, and people went missing all the time, with no bodies ever turning up.

"Where?" he demanded.

Samson winced, shaking now. "P-please messere, I just want a hit. A little hit."

"Tell me, and you'll get your bloody lyrium." Anders had half a mind to tell Hawke not to give it to him after this trouble.

"Warehouse off dock fifteen," Samson sobbed. "Please!"

Anders shoved him one last time, unable to contain his anger, and stepped back, turning away from him. Hawke was looking at him appraisingly. Anders felt in that moment what Carver must have felt when he was caught under his brother's stare. He dropped his eyes, concentrating on calming himself.

"Give him what he wants," Anders whispered, and stalked away, fists clenched.

A few seconds later Hawke fell into step next to him. "Are you familiar with this dock at all?"

Anders' brow furrowed. Wasn't Hawke going to chastise him? Tell him there was a better way than threatening the ex-Templar? "It's on the other side of the main thoroughfare," he replied quietly. "We docked there when they brought us in. We were lucky. So many others like us… hundreds of Fereldans scattered to the wind."

Hawke stopped, grabbing Anders' arm, turning him around to face him. Anders looked at him, feeling drained. While Justice hadn't fully emerged, his friend tended to take a toll on his body and it sapped his strength.

"Are you all right?"

The concern in Hawke's face and voice brought a tired smile to his lips. "I'm fine. I just… get so angry sometimes. And the idea of mages having to resort to someone like him for help. It's sick. Money shouldn't be the primary objective to help people, even mages." He shook his head, trying to clear it. "Do you think there's any hope of finding Feynriel alive?"

"There's always hope," Hawke said, releasing his arm and giving it a gentle pat.

It might have been one of the most saccharine sentiments that Anders had ever heard, along with, 'It's always darkest before the dawn.' But it made him feel better, and in that instant, all he wanted to do was wrap his arms around Hawke's neck and kiss him breathless. In a world surrounded by people like Samson, by mage-hating Templars, by people who simply didn't care what happened to the other, there was Hawke. He was like a beacon of light in the dark, like a cool glass of water to a man dying of thirst, and Anders longed to drink him in.

He looked away, stepping out of arm's reach and started toward the main thoroughfare. Hawke said nothing more, thankfully. He could've commented on the odd behavior, the expression of gratitude he was sure was plastered over his face. Anders was grateful when he didn't. He wasn't up to explaining how futile things felt sometimes, and how hard it was to maintain his focus. It terrified him to even hope that Hawke's goals were the same as his. The man was so hard to read. On one hand, Hawke's concern for his fellow mages appeared genuine. On the other, he took mercenary jobs for coin to fund an expedition to achieve more coin.

What were his motivations, exactly? It was too dangerous to get too involved. It was impossible to tell if Hawke would walk away the moment he made enough money to return to Ferelden. If he was doing this for family, who was to say he wouldn't leave as soon as his mother and brother were taken care of? What future did Anders have with him, with the tension in Kirkwall rising? He could be dead tomorrow. Hawke could be dead tomorrow.

Varric and Carver approached in the distance, the former lifting a hand in greeting. Carver boasted a budding black eye and a cocky grin. Anders wondered who'd punched him the face so that he could find him and thank him.

"What happened?" Hawke asked, frowning.

"Coterie," Varric said. "Not many. Junior caught a pommel to the face."

"You should've seen it," Carver said. "We were surrounded-"

Varric snorted. "I would hardly call four men being surrounded, kid. Stick to the truth. You're a shit storyteller."

Hawke took Carver by the chin, gripping hard when Carver tried to pull away. "Mother's going to be annoyed."

Anders hesitated, then, "I can heal that."

Carver and Hawke looked back at him, Carver finally pulling away from his brother's grasp. "No," he said. "It's fine. It's just a black eye."

"One that'll impair your vision, and we need both eyes intact. We found where Feynriel was taken." He moved back and gestured to Anders. "Go ahead."

Anders stepped up, ignoring the way Carver glared at him. Resisting the temptation to smack him in the bruise with a claim that it would help, he passed a hand over his eye and healed it in seconds.

"Impressive, Blondie," Varric said with a whistle. "Haven't seen many mages who could do that so efficiently."

Carver rubbed his eye, smirking. "Certainly not my brother."

Hawke didn't bother to defend himself, and Anders wondered what his exact skill was. He'd personally always had an affinity for the healing arts. His mentor, Wynne, had begged him just to focus. If he only focused, she said, he could become the senior enchanter in charge of healing. Even teach others who have little to no talent in that area. But Anders was fine with skating by, at least until the very last punishment for fleeing the tower. The one that had him locked in solitary with nothing but stacks and stacks of books. He'd almost been driven mad with study, scrawling notes in the margins that were more death threats on Templars than any real commentary on the subject.

"Warehouse is this way," he said, forcing himself not to think about that time.

He led the way, and Varric moved to point when they arrived in order to pick the lock on the door. He disarmed three traps leading into the main hold area. It was oddly quiet, and a silent understanding passed between them. Quiet meant ambush. If that Templar Samson had tried to set them up, Anders would return and shove another bottle of lyrium down his throat, glass and all, as a way to repay him.

They searched quickly before moving upstairs. Hawke pressed his ear to the door, held up four fingers. Carver raced silently to the other door, and Anders stepped back. While Carver, Hawke, and Varric had fought together and likely had a rhythm, for him it had only been that one night, and Justice had taken him over. He would have hated to get in the way. Hawke signaled to his brother, and on a silent count of three, they broke in the doors and rushed inside.

Anders slipped in after them, moving back, next to Varric, who immediately put a crossbow bolt through the first man's neck. A girl huddled in the corner, two men standing over her. She was screaming.

"HELP! PLEASE!"

Her furtive cries tore at his heart, and he took aim with his staff, but Hawke was faster. Slamming his own staff to the ground, the same wave of ice traveled at breakneck speed over the floorboards, encasing both men. Carver spun, bringing his broadsword across with superhuman speed and strength, shattering them into pieces.

Too late, though; the girl had covered her face, and Anders felt the pull of the Fade. She let out an unearthly scream before her body twisted into an unnatural shape, her chest cracking, bursting open. The last man, who'd raised his daggers to stab Carver in the back, saw what was happening and ran for the door. But too late. A shade – a monstrous shadow spirit from the Fade – oozed up from the floor. It wrapped its wraithlike arms around him and devoured him as he screamed. The girl turned her wrath upon Carver, swiping hard, catching him on the chest and knocking him to the ground. Anders spun his staff, immediately casting a shielding spell.

Catching his breath, emboldened by the protection, Carver kicked to his feet and ducked another blow. He swung at her as Varric and Hawke dispatched two more shades each. Very suddenly, the temperature in the room increased tenfold.

"ANDERS, DOWN!" Hawke bellowed.

Without a second thought, Anders fell to the ground, shielding his head as a bit of flame cascaded down over top of him. Balls of lightning shot from the end of Hawke's staff, catching the rage demon in what passed for its chest. It screamed, a high-pitched sound that Anders had hoped he'd never hear again since his Harrowing. He pressed his hand to the floor and sent a shockwave of energy through it, turning to watch as the rage demon was knocked backward. With an angry cry, Carver ran the length of the room, leapt over Anders' head and brought his sword down diagonally across its body, cleaving it in two.

Anders felt his heart pounding out of his chest, breathing rapidly. The demon dissipated, leaving nothing behind but an acrid, burning stench and a stain on the floor that could easily be mistaken for an oil spill. He accepted the hand up from Carver, his bias against the boy suspended momentarily.

"Thank you," he managed.

Carver slung his sword onto his back, face and clothing covered in the abomination's blood. Anders shied away from it. Though blood of an abomination was no threat to them, the way it congealed, the darker almost blackened hue reminded him of darkpawn blood. Suppressing a shudder, he crossed the room to where the girl's body was and knelt down.

"What are you doing?" Hawke asked.

"That girl," Anders said. "She must've been the other mage Samson mentioned. If there's something to identify her, I have to tell her family what happened."

Gingerly he peeled away the ripped clothing. A contract with a demon, made in haste in an attempt to preserve her life. It needn't have come to that. A waste. If she'd received the support she sought, she might have been halfway to another country by now. Instead, the threat of being sold into slavery, likely raped or murdered had pushed her into this. He pulled a folded letter from her pocket, flipped it open and read.

_Father,_

_I know the sacrifices you've made to conceal my secret, but I am a child no longer. I cannot burden you my whole life, lest my secret destroy us both. I must live my own life as a woman... and as a mage. It is oddly freeing to write the word._

_Farewell, Father. I hope one day you make peace between what you have been taught and what you have seen._

_All my love,_

_Olivia_

"Her name was Olivia," Anders whispered. He looked at her a moment longer, her face twisted into a terribly mimicry of what it had been. With a noise of disgust, he stood, folding the letter and tucking it into his robes.

"Found this," Varric said, handing Hawke a bill of sale.

"Listed along with the fish and rum," Hawke muttered. He handed the paper to Anders.

Anders read it. It was a list of smuggled goods, and near the bottom was a note for a human mage to be given to someone called Danzig in the Undercity. The paper crumpled in his hand. "I know where he is. He operates not too far from my clinic. Mothers warn their children not to play too close. I bet the city guard knows about it, too. They care less about slavers in this city than they do about lining their own pockets. He's Tevinter," he explained, as if that needed to be said. "But they let him do his business and he pays them off. What's one more mage or elf off their streets after all?"

"So then we find Danzig and have a little chat with him," Hawke stated.

Anders nodded, and with one last backward glance at Olivia's twisted form, he followed them out.


	3. Chapter 3

"Do you think there's any chance he's still alive?"

Carver asked the question as they left the warehouse and it remained unanswered, hanging in the air between them as they descended back into the Undercity, Anders leading the way.

"Or even still in Kirkwall?"

Far from concerned, Carver sounded irritated, as if chasing after an elven mage was beneath him. Anders hardly thought he had room to talk, being a Fereldan refugee living with the rats in Lowtown. Perhaps back home he'd been a big deal to someone, but here he was just another face in the crowd. It was ironically why Anders preferred Kirkwall to Ferelden. There, his description had been passed around from chantry to chantry and while the kingdom was larger than Kirkwall, it felt smaller than a prison cell to him. Much easier to hide in a city among hundreds of other refugees who were also looking to do the same.

"Junior, try shutting up for once, okay?"

Anders swallowed his anxiety, grateful for Varric's sharp words. It didn't help that the same questions played over and over in his thoughts. Feynriel could be dead. Or he could be on a ship to Tevinter. Or he could be stuffed in a crate, waiting to be shipped out along with who knew how many others. Slavery was illegal everywhere in Thedas outside the Imperium, and yet he'd seen the Tevinter slavers in Ferelden. There had been talk of some noble in Denerim selling elves from the alienage. He had meant to ask the Warden about it, but other things kept them from having that conversation.

Danzig's place wasn't too far from his own, a dingy little dockside encampment with a dozen men who all looked up as they approached and descended the steep staircase. Danzig, clad in black and green Tevinter robes, turned and stood up from the fire where an impaled nug turned on a spit. He traced his goatee with his thumb and forefinger, then crossed his arms, looking them over.

"Look it here, boys," he said, his accent thick, his speech unhurried. "Not every day that willing merchandise wanders into our midst."

The hair on the back of Anders' neck prickled. In his peripheral vision he saw a few of Danzig's men closing in around them.

Varric's hand twitched at his side. "Hope you got a plan, Hawke," he muttered.

Hawke strode forward, stopping as a slaver pulled a blade on him, holding it to his neck. "Too close," the man said, his voice muffled by the wrap he wore around the lower half of his face.

"I'm looking for a boy called Feynriel. I know Reiner delivered him to you."

"Is that so?" Danzig asked. He looked over his shoulder to three others who'd gotten to their feet, drawing their weapons.

He said something in Tevene to them. Anders caught one word: "kill" and he only knew it because he'd tried to teach Ser Pounce-a-Lot how to sic others using different languages. The Qunari, for example, had quite a few words for "attack." Still, it didn't bode well for them if Danzig's men were getting the go ahead for violence from their leader. He reached forward surreptitiously, touching Hawke's wrist. Normally, such a move would excite him. However, their situation kept his emotions in check. All except his fight-or-flight instincts, of course.

"Four behind us," he whispered, his lips close to Hawke's ear. "I can stop them for a few seconds."

"If you just tell me where he is, I'll pay you his worth," Hawke said, impervious to the blade still held at his throat. "And we can all walk away from this."

Danzig laughed, a disgusting, snorting noise. Around them, his men joined in sycophantically. Anders noticed a few of them were eyeing himself and Hawke warily, taking in the large sword in Carver's hand, and the expensive-looking crossbow on Varric's back. The slavers might have numbers on their side, but the 'willing merchandise' would not go down without a fight.

The man that held the sword glanced to Danzig, started to say something, and was immediately dropped by Hawke who'd brought a knee up into his groin. Anders turned, arms together, palms out as he pulled a magical cage from the ground, quickly encasing the four men that flanked them. It wasn't a spell he'd needed to use often, and holding it took all his concentration and quite a bit of energy. Behind him, he heard the fight: Carver's yelling, Varric's taunting. The smell of fire permeated the air, adding to the already foul scent of rotted fish.

Hold on just a little longer, he thought, gritting his teeth. He fell to one knee, and the paralysis cage faltered. Two of the men broke free, one racing at him, a large curved blade raised over his head, coming down to strike. Anders broke the spell with a cry, raising his arm to defend himself, waiting for a blow that never came. He looked up – Hawke had blocked the strike with his staff, shoving the slaver backward, gathering fire at his palm. He snapped his hand forward, throwing it at Anders' attacker and the others who hadn't had time to get out of the way. It exploded on impact, and he heard the visceral screams of the men as they tried to run from the inevitable. One threw himself from the dock wall, his still-flaming body smacking hard against the sea.

Anders leaned over, hand in the dirt, trying to steady himself. It had taken much more out of him than he thought it would to maintain the paralysis. While healing came easily, the more arcane arts drained him. He was built for protection, not for attack. A strong hand reached down, gripping him under the arm and he allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.

"You all right?" Hawke asked, handing him a small vial of blue liquid.

"I think so." Anders took the lyrium, wondering how Hawke came upon it so readily. He uncorked it and let the cool, sweet potion rejuvenate him. "You seem to have these in spades," he said, licking his lips.

"I know people," Hawke replied, kneeling down to sift through Danzig's pockets.

"It's a wonder she's still giving you potions, considering she's married with a kid and all," Carver quipped, sheathing his blade. 

Anders glanced around; the slavers that had not fled were now lying dead by blade, bow or burns.  
Carver started searching the rest of the camp for anything useful. "But I guess Elegant was always sweet on you."

"Is that jealousy I hear?" Varric asked. "Should I add this to the next chapter? A ballad of Hawke's torrid love affairs and how his brother gets to enjoy sloppy seconds."

Carver chucked a rock at Varric. Laughing, the dwarf deflected it easily. Anders couldn't join in the merriment, however. This seemed to be a normal thing for them. Confront a group of Templars or demons or slavers, kill them, make jokes. And from what it sounded like, Hawke's easy acquisition of lyrium potions could be attributed to a sexual relationship with a woman. He felt the jealousy twist inside him, and not for the first time wondered why he was here. Perhaps he should just give Hawke the maps now and retreat, withdraw his offer to come with them. But there was still the matter of the boy. He wouldn't abandon a fellow mage in need.

"Found something," Hawke said, moving to the fire so he could read a piece of paper he'd found. "What do you think, Varric?"

Varric stroked his chin, looking down at the paper. "Looks like the coast. I know there's some old slaver caverns out there, used back in the Imperium times. Holding pens, more or less. But most of them have all been filled in, either by rockslides or on order from when Kirkwall became a free city. It's worth a shot, though. There's no way they've all been destroyed."

"See, this is why we keep you around," said Carver, stuffing a few coins into his pouch. "You're like a walking tome of useless facts."

"Carver," Hawke snapped. Apparently the time for joking had passed. Hawke pocketed his map and picked up Danzig's staff. With a look of disgust, he snapped it in half, tossed it aside, and plucked the half-charred nug from the fire. "Let's go."

Anders followed him up the stairs, stopping only so Hawke could hand the nug to a woman who sat in the shadows of an alleyway. She looked up at him, surprised.

"Thank you, serah! Oh, praise Andraste."

"Soft heart," Varric laughed as they ascended the steps to Lowtown.

"Keep that out of your stories." Hawke tried to sound irritated, but Anders could see his lip curl in amusement.

There was much more to Hawke, he realized, than he likely would ever be able to figure out in a lifetime. 

-

Only a few actual roads led out of Kirkwall, the easiest way to reach the city being by sea. Its natural mountainous defenses made it difficult for caravans to pass through. It was no wonder then that most, if not all of Kirkwall's trade came directly from cargo ships. The easiest and therefore most dangerous road out was through the Wounded Coast. The name was apt, Anders thought. He'd seen a few beaches in his travels, but none as jagged and deadly as this. Slippery cliff walls and sharp rocks made traveling extremely hazardous. It was hardly vacation material, the shore littered with broken bits of wood, glass and metal from ships that fell victim to violent storms and were subsequently slammed against the unforgiving rocks.

It summed up Kirkwall quite neatly, he thought. Tread carefully, avoid the brutal waves, or get pummeled again and again without an end in sight. Death would be a mercy. Maudlin thoughts. He shook his head to clear it, glad that he walked behind the other three. They were talking quietly, the sound of the ocean and the gulls drowning out the conversation. He turned again to his thoughts.

_We must find Feynriel. We must help him._

These were the two things at the forefront of his mind, and he couldn't tell if they originated from him or from Justice. It didn't matter. Finding the boy for good or for ill was the important thing. And if they only had a body to bring back to his mother, then so be it.

"The caves are about two miles out," Varric said, loud enough so Anders could hear, tossing a look back. "The path will smooth before it gets worse."

Hawke fell back a step, in line with Anders, allowing Varric and Carver to lead the way as the coast narrowed. To their right, ten foot cliffs, grey and black, slick lichen crawling upward. To their left, a forty-five degree angle of twisted vegetation that had wormed its way through the rocky sand. Beyond that, the beach and the ocean. The moon directly overhead, the tide was at its highest, the inky sea inviting like a siren's call, luring unsuspecting swimmers to their untimely deaths. Anders had heard too many tales of Fereldan children, expecting gentle waters like that of the Amaranthine Ocean, being dragged under in an instant.

"You're very quiet," Hawke said. He'd taken his staff from his back and used it now for a walking stick as the path started to ascend.

"Thinking about the boy. About what we might find."

"His mother Arianni mentioned she'd left the Dalish when she met a human merchant."

"So the boy is human?" Anders asked. Ahead, Varric and Carter shared a joke, laughing loudly in the near silence.

"Of elven blood. I met the man. Vincento. Real piece of work." Hawke didn't bother to hide his disgust. "He was useless for information, but a dead Antivan merchant is more trouble than he's worth."

"You would kill a man for leaving his lover and their child?" Anders asked incredulously. He glanced at Hawke, but couldn't see past the hood.

"Maybe not," Hawke acceded.

"Sounds like there's a 'but' in there," Anders prompted gently, hoping he wasn't overstepping his bounds. They still had quite a walk to go, and he found conversation with Hawke to be a pleasant distraction.

Hawke stayed quiet for a moment, the only sounds the waves breaking and their companions ahead. He sighed. "A man has obligations to his family, whether he wishes to fulfill them or not. It's not about the means of fulfilling them, just that they're taken care of. Arianni left the Dalish and took a chance on someone who hurt her. Rather than suffer the indignities of returning to her tribe and feeling like an outsider, she stayed in the alienage to raise him. And in sixteen years, Vincento never sent money to help."

Anders frowned, knowing there was a deeper underlying factor to this rant. Not that a person couldn't feel this level of compassion for someone, and Hawke did strike him as someone who always fought for the underdog. If ever there was one, it was an elf-blooded Dalish mage being raised by a single mother in one of the poorest excuses for an alienage he'd ever seen. There simply seemed to be more to it. Something in the way Hawke mentioned obligations. He felt though, that it might be too intrusive to press. Perhaps an issue with Hawke's own father? It wouldn't be prudent to ask, not now.

"More trouble than it's worth," Hawke said again.

"You can't right every wrong in the world," Anders replied. It was a throwaway statement, but Hawke had stopped walking, Anders having to hang back on his heel to turn and look.

His breath caught. Hawke was looking at him intently, and even from beneath the hood, Anders could see that piercing stare. Behind him, Varric and Carter were none the wiser, having turned a corner, out of sight. Anders opened his mouth to say something, but couldn't form the words for a sentence. It wasn't fear exactly that held him in place. He wondered idly if it was some kind of entropic magic that made him pause, a mind control just this side of blood magic. But he felt nothing, no ominous pull at his brain, bidding him to stay still. It was simply Hawke.

"I can try," Hawke said finally.

Anders shivered, feeling a stirring inside him. A brief flash of want, of need passed through him. Hawke was so sure, so confident. His strength was so compelling, so substantial that it was almost tangible. It took all he had not to walk into Hawke's embrace and stay there, to feed from that confidence, wish it for his own.

Hawke gestured to the trail and continued walking. "You don't seem like someone who would give up so easily either."

"I'm not," Anders agreed, falling into step beside him. "Even if I wanted to, Justice wouldn't let me. Our cause is the same. The mages must be free." When Hawke said nothing, Anders continued. "The Chantry would have people believe that mages are dangerous. That without the guidance of the Maker and the will of the Templars, we'd all fall to temptation, to blood magic. That we would consort with demons and try to take over the world. It's an ancient bias. Mages today aren't like that. They don't want to rule, they just want to live."

He wished Hawke would say something, agree with him, argue with him, tell him to shut up. The lack of response was unnerving.

"In Tevinter, they live free," Hawke said finally.

It was a devil's advocate argument, and Anders was prepared for it. "You can't judge all mages on the merits of the magisters in the Imperium." It was the reasoning he'd used several times, debating with other apprentices, other enchanters in the Circle back in Ferelden. "Just because they descended from those who thought 'might makes right' doesn't mean every free mage would go about cutting his wrists and taking up deals with demons. Look at yourself. Look at your father-"

"Shut up about my father."

Anders' mouth closed with an audible snap. The conversation they'd been having had been one of mutual agreement, or so he thought. He'd touched a nerve. Or trampled onto it. "I… I'm sorry," he offered, a bit lamely. "If I've offended…"

"It's fine."

The quick acceptance of his apology stunned Anders back into silence. Just as he thought he was getting Hawke figured out, the man went and pulled something like this. He cleared his throat. "There are… many others," he continued tentatively. When Hawke didn't raise an objection, he pressed on. "Apostates in Kirkwall. More than Knight-Commander Meredith thinks. And there are even more in the Free Marches. If they were so dangerous, they would have banded together by now to form a cult to overthrow the Chantry. But they haven't. People are scared because they think mages would rise up and rule them, take them as slaves. But after hundreds of years of living as slaves themselves, they would only desire freedom. Not a wish to rule, just to be able to live without threat of Templars knocking down their door to drag them into a prison."

"Was the Circle in Ferelden awful?"

Anders frowned. "That's not the point."

"I didn't mean to make it one," Hawke said coaxingly. "It was a standalone question."

Anders sighed. Trying to figure this man out would likely be the death of him. He thought about the question. Was the Circle awful? Everything it stood for, surely. Being plucked away from his family, forced to live there against his will, definitely. Living with others like him, making friends and learning more magic? Not as much. Meeting Karl, falling in love, getting to experience the passion of acceptance and the physical coupling that followed? No. That had been the best and the worst part of the Circle. He lost his focus for a moment, boot slipping on the slick lichen-covered rocks. Despite Hawke's quick reflexes, grabbing his arm to steady him, Anders smashed his knee hard against the jagged stone.

"Andraste's flaming sword," he hissed, wincing against the pain.

"All right?" Hawke asked, helping him to his feet. "Careful."

It was healed in a matter of seconds, a faint white-blue glow from Anders' palm. The stinging pain faded almost instantly. His pants were torn, but would be easily mended once he got home. What was far more unsettling was that Hawke's hands were still on him. One at his waist, the other under his elbow, holding him up, steadying him. He looked at Hawke, the hood of his robes fallen back. He was concerned, and so very close. Anders could smell him, feel his breath against his lips, mere inches from his own. All he had to do was lean down slightly.

Hawke pulled back. "Anders?"

Shit. He'd been too preoccupied, too wrapped up the moment. Hawke didn't want this. His concern was strictly platonic, and now Anders would have to explain. It was awkward, much too awkward to discuss here and now when they had a mission to complete, a boy to save. He was getting distracted. When he heard Varric calling them from ahead, there was relief. A diversion to pull him away from having to explain.

Taking his staff from his back, he used it to steady himself and hurried ahead, thankful that Hawke didn't ask. Perhaps he knew. Perhaps he figured it out. Anders had tried to be careful to guard his feelings, but Hawke was observant and hardly stupid. He only hoped that once this was all over with, Hawke would neglect to ask about it. Just in case, as they continued their trek in silence, Anders mentally compiled a list of reasons explaining away his behavior. If Hawke asked, he would have to be ready to deflect.

"I think these are it," Varric said, holding the map up in the moonlight. "One of these here."

Hawke brushed past Anders and took the map from Varric's hand, checking the stars for navigation before surveying the coastline, then looking at the caves. Seeming to come to a decision, he gestured to the one just a few feet from them. "That'll be it."

"And if not," Carver said, "we just get eaten by spiders or dragons or whatever else happens to be lurking in there."

"We can only hope to be so lucky as to get rid of you that easily, Junior."

Carver scowled. "Shut it, dwarf."

Varric raised both his hands, his face twisted up in mock terror. "Please don't use your big sword on me Mr. Warrior Man!"

"Come on," Hawke grunted, leading the way, clearly out of patience.

They followed him in, the stone in his staff alighting as they descended. Other than that, it was pitch black, impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. Anders kept one hand against the cave wall, flicking insects away as they scuttled over his fingers. His claustrophobia resurged viciously, gripping him in a panic. He stopped, a pebble resounding off his boot, clattering across stone and rock and dirt. 

_Keep going._

He wasn't sure if the thought came from him or from Justice. He took a step, feeling as if he were trying to walk through molasses.

_These aren't the Deep Roads._

He took another step, forcing himself to continue

_There's a mage in trouble._

With this last thought, he managed to break through his panic. Thankfully the others hadn't looked back, and he only had to hurry slightly to catch up. The oppressive weight of the rocks above still made his heart race, but he took solace in the fact that they weren't miles underground, that the caves were merely holding cells, not passages to the Deep Roads. They weren't likely to encounter darkspawn or anything similar. Giant spiders, perhaps. Dragons, maybe. Deepstalkers, shambling corpses, Coterie, Carta, highwaymen, bandits, robbers, rapists and most definitely slavers.

But not darkspawn.

He let out a breath, finding slight amusement in his thought process, but it emboldened him. He kept his eyes straight ahead on Hawke's staff, letting the light guide him through. Eventually the cavern opened up and strung up oil lamps provided dim light. Ahead of them, large wooden scaffolding held up the ceiling, serving to halt their progress as well.

"Not another step!"

The warning came from their right, and they turned as one to see a fat man in shabby leather armor holding a sword to a boy's throat. They stood on a dais, several broken wooden steps leading upward, and behind them, another tunnel. Through the gloom of the cavern, Anders could make out the boy's scared visage. His eyes were wide and alienesque, the bridge of his nose flat, indications of his elven blood. More than that, though, Anders could see a terrified child, begging for help.

Hawke's fist clenched, but it was Varric who stepped forward, gesturing.

"Look, you don't want to do this."

"Oh, aye?" the slaver asked. He sounded nervous for a slaver, as if he realized he got a bad deal. "Why's that?"

"Let me guess," Varric said, keeping his hands spread. "You got word of a deal, a place you could get mageflesh cheap. So you agreed. Do you even know who this boy is?"

Feynriel let out a sob, and the slaver pushed him back further with the tip of his sword. "'oo is 'e then?"

"You don't recognize the Viscount's bastard boy?"

Anders had to hand it to the dwarf. He could spin a tale made of shit and even the wisest man would call it gold.

"Viscount?"

Varric hummed. "Mm. The bastard he sired with his elven mistress, the one he swore to keep safe even if meant setting fire to the Free Marches. Are you going to want to bring that down on your head when he sends the entire city guard looking for him? Best you give him up now. We'll take him back to his father and tell him we found him after he ran away from home."

The slaver looked from Varric to Feynriel, glancing behind him where half a dozen slavers stood in the shadows. "Flames take you," he spat. "You're not worth the coin you'd fetch."

They withdrew quickly, their steps echoing down the tunnel. Hawke was first up the stairs, kneeling next to the boy who'd collapsed from fear.

"They were going to kill me!" Feynriel exclaimed.

"No," said Hawke, "they were going to sell you. You're all right now."

Anders knelt down as well, on Feynriel's other side. A quick assessment revealed nothing physically wrong with him, just a small knick on his throat where the blade had cut too close.

"Who are you? Why did you come after me? Did my mother send you?" The questions came rapidly, and Feynriel started to back away, crawling through the dirt.

"She did," Hawke said, not pursuing him. "But to help you."

"Help me! My mother doesn't want to help me! She wants to lock me up!" Feynriel got slowly to his feet. "You should have just left with me the slavers. It was all, 'I'll keep you safe, I won't let the Templars get you' and then a few nights of bad dreams and it's, 'Off to the Circle!' She doesn't love me, she's scared of me!"

Anders stood, Hawke rising next to him, but neither moved to corner the boy, who was still backing away. In Feynriel, he saw a small, scared, twelve-year-old boy whose father turned him over to the Templars. Crying, locked in manacles, torn from his family, his friends, everything he'd ever known. He closed his eyes, willing himself to calm down. It wouldn’t endear him to Feynriel if Justice emerged now.

"We want to help you," came Hawke's rich, soothing tone.

Anders imagined it was Hawke speaking to him, to that scared little boy, and Justice slowly relinquished his hold. He opened his eyes. Feynriel still looked scared, still angry.

"Why? Why would you want to help me?"

Hawke held out a hand; Feynriel flinched. Fire sprang from Hawke's palm, engulfing his hand, covering the fingerless leather glove, and then disappeared just as quickly.

"Because I am you."

"Y-you," Feynriel stammered. "You're a mage too?"

"And my friend here," Hawke said, nodding toward Anders. "We want to help."

Anders felt his heart lighten further at Hawke's proclamation of friendship. "We won't take you to the Circle," he declared. "We'll find you someplace safe."

"The Circle IS safe," Carver argued.

Anders nearly jumped; he'd been so focused on Feynriel and lost inside his own memories that he'd forgotten Carver and Varric were there. "The Circle is a prison dressed up to look like a safe house," he snapped. "Though I don't expect you to understand."

"Says the apostate abomin-."

"Carver. Go patrol the front of the cave." This from Hawke, whose normally carefully controlled cadence shook slightly with frustration and more than a bit of anger.

"No! The boy's mother wants him in the Circle. We agreed. We told that Templar we would take him. Where's he going to go? Out on his own in the world with no one there for him? Or are we going to take in every charity case in Kirkwall? You'd better hope Gamlen doesn't mind a few more mouths to feed, beca-"

He broke off suddenly, and Anders realized that Hawke's hand had begun to glow. Varric stepped back swiftly, not wanting to be caught up in the spell. A thin wall of rock encased Carver, rendering him immobile. Hawke closed his fist, and the rock shattered. Carver looked outraged.

"Void take you, Garrett," he growled.

Hawke didn't bother turning around, but Anders could see the lines around his mouth tighten ever so slightly. Carver spun on his heel without another word and stalked back through the cave. Feynriel's eyes widen at this exchange.

"Where were you going?" Hawke asked, his tone gentle again. "Before Danzig took you."

"The Dalish," Feynriel said warily. "I was telling that captain. Reiner. I just needed to find them so I could ask them for help."

"I don't know, kid," Varric said. "Elves don't usually take in humans."

"They have more of a respect for magic than humans do," Feynriel protested. "It's my only chance. Please," he begged, turning wide, watery eyes back to Hawke. "Please don't take me to the Circle."

Anders reached out, touching Hawke's wrist. Hawke looked down at it, then up at Anders.

"You don't know what the Circle here is like. What they do to mages who've run away once. Remember what they did to… to Karl," he managed. He felt ever again like that boy, begging his father not to let the Templars take him away.

Hawke's lips thinned, a muscle in his jaw twitching. He nodded, and Anders released him. "I have to see Keeper Marethari on Sundermount." He turned to Feynriel. "You can come with us."

"Uh, Hawke," Varric said, "should I remind you that Sundermount is at least a day's journey from Kirkwall? We're hardly prepared to go hiking up a mountain in the middle of the pitch black night looking for Dalish elves that may or may not be happy to see us, arrows and all."

As much as Anders wanted to deliver Feynriel right away to the Dalish, he had to agree. The thought of traversing the darkened trails after everything they'd been through that day was a little more than daunting.

"We'll go first thing in the morning, then," Hawke agreed.

"Back to Kirkwall?" Feynriel gaped. "The Templars will capture me for sure. I'd rather stay here!"

"He can stay with me," Anders said immediately. "There's more than enough room in my clinic, and I don't think one night would be an issue. We'll leave at first light." His suggestion had the goal of both keeping Feynriel safe and making sure Hawke would not ignore him for another two weeks after they parted once again.

"It's the best plan for now," Hawke agreed, and looked at Feynriel for his approval.

The boy weighed his options, eyes flicking from Hawke to Anders and back again. He nodded. Anders reached out slowly, as if Feynriel were a wounded animal he was seeking to console. Feynriel flinched, but allowed himself to be led from the dais, Anders' guiding hand on his shoulder. Hawke led the way back through the cave, and only when they stepped outside did Anders feel comfortable once more. Without the oppressive darkness, the impression of the rocks bearing down on him, he felt he could breathe again.

"Junior's gone," Varric remarked.

Hawke merely grunted, staff sparking with each step he took over the rocks. Knowing when to back off, Varric fell silent and they made their way back to Kirkwall without another word.


	4. Chapter 4

When the sun streamed through the high windows alerting him to the start of the day, he stretched, sitting up gingerly. He'd given Feynriel his cot, choosing instead to sleep on one of the many tables in the clinic. In comparison, he really wasn't sure which one was more comfortable; they both felt like hard wooden boards. Back aching slightly, shoulders sore, he rolled his head, muscles crunching. A few feet away, Feynriel muttered in his sleep. He'd woken once in the night, calling out for his mother. Anders had to coax him into consciousness, and they talked.

The nightmares the boy was having didn't sound familiar at all to Anders. He'd had nightmares himself before going to the Circle, but they were all tame in comparison. The worst of all was losing a stuffed animal to the void, an endless black swirling mass that had devoured the stuffed kitten. When he woke, the toy was missing and he'd cried. In his defense, he had been only five. Still, it was things like that which stuck with him. After going to the Circle, he was taught to control his dreams, to enter the Fade with the other sleeping apprentices. He eventually learned how to meet others there as they slept. Those dreams had been… enjoyable.

The dreams changed with his Joining. Drinking darkspawn blood to take in the taint, accepting his fate as a Grey Warden. The pleasant trips through the Fade turned into demonic murmurings. Everywhere he turned, his world was covered in the black taint, the slick, greasy oil that couldn't be cleaned. He woke screaming each night for a week after his Joining, but whatever Feynriel was experiencing, even the darkspawn seemed to pale in comparison. As a result, neither had gotten very much sleep and as they breakfasted on crusts of bread and bruised fruit, Feynriel apologized.

"I didn't take you in expecting it to be all sunshine and kittens," Anders assured him. His light tone and joking manner only seemed to depress Feynriel all the more. "You'll be with the Dalish by supper. Earlier than that if we can manage it."

"What if they don't take me in?" Feynriel asked, staring down at the apple in his hand. "What if your friend was right and the Keeper decides having a human around is a risk?"

"Hawke will convince her," Anders found himself saying. More than that, he found himself believing it.

Feynriel seemed to accept it, and they finished their meal quietly. Anders took a few minutes to gather a bag of herbs and poultices just in case. His lyrium stores were depleted and the few coppers at the bottom of his coin purse meant obtaining more would be difficult. Perhaps Hawke… but no. Asking Hawke for more meant he'd likely have to speak to that woman – what was her name? Lady Harlot? And Anders did not want to be responsible for driving Hawke into her arms. He would just have to be careful with his casting and hope they didn't run into any opposition. The Dalish would hardly attack on sight, not without warning. And if Hawke was expected, they would hopefully be welcomed gently. Breakfast finished, they headed out.

Lowtown was horribly confusing and still a maze to him, despite having been in Kirkwall for some time now. Every apartment looked the same, dug from the same tan colored stone with the same blood red, metal door. Anders supposed individuality didn't matter, since the apartments had been little more than holding pens for slaves in the Imperium's time. It made for a labyrinthine city, easy to get turned around and lost, then subsequently jumped and robbed. But he'd memorized at least three different routes from his clinic to Hawke's place.

Feynriel hesitated as they approached the street Gamlen lived on. The alienage was only a few more blocks away, and Anders had to put a hand on his shoulder to keep him from running off.

"It's ahead," he said, nodding at the red metal door. "If you want to wait, I'll go up."

Feynriel nodded, and Anders turned to walk the steps to the apartment when the door flung open with a clang. He caught the tail end of angry shouting as Hawke barreled out.

"…EVER do that to him again!" came a woman's voice from within.

Anders tried to side step the oncoming storm that was Hawke, but the broader man caught him square in the chest. He slipped and nearly fell, Hawke grabbing his wrist with lightning fast reflexes. They skidded down three steps together and Anders tipped forward against him as Hawke hit the wall with a grunt, still holding tightly to his arm.

"Sorry," Hawke muttered, releasing him.

Dazed, Anders realized that for the second time in as many days, he was in Hawke's arms. The broad muscles in his chest flexed under the thin robe as Hawke gently set him upright. Almost immediately, Anders missed the warmth.

"Are you all right?" Anders asked, once he'd caught his breath. His heart was still pounding.

"It'll be fine. Where's-" Hawke looked over his shoulder, nodding at Feynriel. "Ready?"

Feynriel returned the nod, shifting anxiously from foot to foot.

"Good," Hawke said. He picked up his staff from where it had fallen on the steps, spun it once and hooked it behind him. Without another word, he took off toward the Hanged Man, the other two hurrying to catch up.

Feynriel seemed impressed by the move, and Anders couldn't blame him. He again wondered as to the extent of Hawke's training. The man moved like a skilled warrior, fast as any assassin, strong as any fighter. Had his father taught him, or was it something he learned on his travels in Ferelden? There were so many things Anders wanted to ask. Now wasn't the time, though.

Hawke pushed open the door to the Hanged Man, tossing a nod to a buxom Rivaini woman as he ascended the tavern's steps. Anders did a double take. Was that… No. Maybe she just looked like someone he knew. There were plenty of Rivaini in both Ferelden and Kirkwall. Besides, he'd only spent a few nights on that woman's ship – there had to be others who looked similar. But wouldn't it be something, he thought, if it were her.

"Varric, ready?" Hawke asked, knocking on the door to Varric's suite and pushing it open.

The elf was there; he rounded at once on Hawke. "I don't know why you need me for this, Hawke. Surely you can manage this menial task without my assistance."

There was something about this guy that made Anders want to set his hair on fire. Justice surged forward. Yes, he thought, but something other than the mage-hating. He'd met many of those types in his lifetime, but none that rankled him quite as badly as this one.

"I would've asked you personally, Fenris, instead of sending a note," Hawke said calmly, and Anders admired his patience. "But time is running short. If you're not up for going, fine, but I'd feel better with a skilled warrior at my back. My brother is currently indisposed. Aveline has her hands full. You're the only one else I know who can wield a sword with any proficiency. And I trust you."

It was the last comment that seemed to calm Fenris. His stance relaxed, fists unclenching, and he turned away a bit, eyes falling to the floor. It was an odd change in character, Anders thought. It was as if Fenris was an open book and Hawke had simply reached out and turned one of his pages to a more pleasant chapter. As far as he could tell, it was through words alone, not a hint of magic in the air.

"We're ready," Varric said, slinging his crossbow over his shoulder and taking up his pack. "What happened with Carver? Hey Blondie, kid," he added, nodding to each Anders and Feynriel in turn.

They walked out together, both Hawke and Varric waving to the Rivaini this time. Anders promised himself he'd talk to her the next time he saw her. She looked so familiar.

"He's not coming," Hawke said simply.

"But what happened?" Varric pressed.

Fenris led them out of the city, Hawke pulling his hood up as they passed two of the city guard coming in from patrol. Anders kept even with Feynriel, giving him a nod when the boy looked to him for assurance.

"Varric," Hawke snapped.

"Nuh-uh, that won't work on me, Hawke. I'm going to get an answer one way or another. Even if it means waiting until we get back and dragging it out of Carver. And I'm sure his side of the story will be much more interesting."

Anders had to admire Varric, even if he was a bit of a nosy busybody. He had a certain charm that made one instantly like him. Perhaps it was his smile, the way he'd look you in the eye. It was easy to trust him, but then Anders realized, that was all part of his gig. It was hard to believe all of that was a mask though. Hawke seemed too shrewd to fall for that.

"He told our mother about the incident in the cave. She wasn't happy."

Ah, Anders thought. That explained the yelling, then. Varric, perhaps sensing Hawke's discomfort, let the subject drop for now. Hawke stalked forward to walk with Fenris, and they were too far ahead for Anders to catch any bits of conversation. Varric looked back at him and Feynriel and shrugged, falling behind to walk between them.

"So, how did the night in Darktown go?" Varric asked Feynriel, hoping to open him up.

Feynriel shrugged a bit, and Anders waved a hand. "It went about as well as you'd expect," he said. "Sleeping on a hard cot with a pillow made of rocks, under a blood-stained sheet that offers no warmth."

Varric snorted. "You can come stay at the Hanged Man. Plenty of space there."

"I'm not a charity case, Varric. I can handle it," Anders said defensively. Perhaps he'd been too quick to deride his residence. "In any case, it's tax free and I at least have a door I can lock at night. Which is more than I can say for most of the poor slobs that live there."

"All I'm saying," Varric said, trailing off. "So, kid," he continued, switching the subject yet again, "what do you know about the Dalish?"

"Not much," Feynriel admitted quietly.

"But your mother's Dalish, isn't she?" he continued. Feynriel hesitated. Varric changed tact at once. "She must've told you about your heritage. It's not all that unusual to see elf-blooded humans, but living among elves, that's rare. Sounds like you got the best of both worlds."

"Well. She did tell me stories," Feynriel offered. "That's why I thought maybe the Dalish would take me. The Keeper knows magic. She can teach me how to control this."

"If it's magic you're looking to control, Blondie there could teach you something. Or Hawke."

Anders shook his head. "His magic is something I've never seen." 

He recalled the nightmares Feynriel had, the screams. The shaking, the sweating. The sheer terror. The Fade, dangerous while mages slept, was easy enough to traverse if you were careful. Something else was plaguing the boy. As much as he wanted to help Feynriel, the Dalish did seem his best option. Anders was under no false assumption that he was even capable of tutoring someone in basic magic. In the Circle, he declined the position many times, passing up the chance to be an enchanter, even with Wynne's urging and her promises that she'd help him with an apprentice.

It was possibly the best decision he ever made, thinking back on it. Back then, he was selfish. He refused to teach because he didn't want to tie himself to the Circle. He always knew he'd escape for good someday. And he did. And almost immediately following that, he acquired Justice. Acquired – it was a tame word for it. But he refused to think of himself as an abomination. He'd made no deals with demons, used no blood magic. However, he knew he would never be a shining example of mage freedom. Justice pulled at the corners of his mind and he raised a hand to his forehead.

"Feeling all right, Blondie?" Varric asked. The sun had started to rise up over the mountain. "Need a break? We can stop for water."

Anders dropped his hand, tossing him an easy smile. "I'm fine. We should just get there as quickly as possible."

"All right," Varric said, still looking at him with concern. "But if you pass out from exhaustion, we're out a healer."

"There's Hawke."

Varric laughed. "You know why he carries health poultices, right?" Anders shook his head. "He can't heal worth a damn. We don't just pick on him for the sound of our own voices. He admitted it straight out. Bloody brilliant with all the other things you mages do, though," he said, wiggling his fingers for added effect.

Anders thought he wouldn't mind finding out what Hawke's fingers could do. He coughed to cover a blush.

"Said his dad tried to teach him. He ended up burning down their house. Don't tell him I told you that, though," Varric added as an afterthought.

"Sounds familiar," Anders muttered, remembering how he'd accidentally set fire to his family's barn. Apparently it was a rite of passage for budding mages.

"He spins a good story. Almost as good as me. Well, not quite. Not enough embellishment. But back to you, kid. What stories have you heard?"

Feynriel, who'd been listening quietly, jumped a little as he was addressed again. As they continued their trek, Varric slowly got him to open up. Anders listened as Feynriel told the story of Fen'Harel, the Dread Wolf. His voice was high and lyrical, betraying his elven blood. Perhaps the Dalish would teach him to sing the stories, integrate him into their clan. But that might be wishful thinking. It was entirely possible they would all be turned away at the entrance to the camp, or worse. The thought made him nervous and he glanced around.

The road this way out of Kirkwall was rocky like all the other roads out. Unlike the coast, they were surrounded by cliffs on both sides. It was easy to plan an attack, easy to get caught in an ambush. But the attack never came, and he relaxed, becoming lost in his own thoughts as he listened to the sounds of Varric and Feynriel's conversation. His mind wasn't on them, though. Several steps ahead, Hawke and Fenris walked together, leaning close to one another to talk. Once, Hawke reached out, touching Fenris on the arm. The elf pulled away, and Hawke gestured. Fenris shrugged irritably. Or perhaps he just shrugged. 'Irritated' seemed to be his default.

The exchange left Anders confused, but as he thought about it, the more it made sense. The last few days had been a whirlwind. Running from Templars had always been his life, whether it was Ferelden or Kirkwall, it didn't change much. But after coming to Kirkwall, after Karl, things had become almost stagnant. Making subtle inquiries into the Circle grew increasingly difficult without someone on the inside, and obtaining another contact through what few acquaintances he had proved fruitless so far. Since meeting Hawke, things started fluctuating quite rapidly. In the last few days it was as if he'd found a new outlet for his cause, new possibilities for helping other mages. And Feynriel was just the start.

Maybe the elf felt the same way. It would certainly explain why Fenris decided to stay with him, despite his animosity for mages. Hawke just seemed to have a magnetic pull, and those around him simply went with the ebb and flow.

Midday shortened their shadows, casting a harsh heat down on them. Feynriel stumbled a few times until finally Hawke decided they would have a break. They sought shelter in a shallow cave, and Fenris disappeared for a few minutes, returning with several canteens full of water. He distributed them without a word, and sat apart from the others to eat alone. Feynriel, who seemed rather comfortable now with Varric, sat with him at the mouth of the cave, eager to hear more stories.

Anders hesitated, but settled down next to Hawke on a flat rock. Hawke tore off a hunk of bread from the loaf he'd brought and offered it to him.

"Thank you," Anders said, looking at it contemplatively. "About your brother-"

"I don't really want to talk about it," Hawke said, pulling his hood back. "It's over with."

"I just wanted to thank you for defending me to him. Even though you don't have to. I know what I am. With Justice inside me, what I've become. I know that-"

Hawke looked up at him suddenly. "You're a mage. That makes you my kin. More than Carver will be."

Anders tried to suppress a shiver at the declaration, but failed. Maker, was this man always so intense? "I… don't think I'll ever be able to figure you out, Hawke."

Hawke shrugged, the severity gone from his stare as he turned back to his meager meal. He took a swig from his canteen, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. "Carver's always had a chip on his shoulder. Father was busy teaching me and Bethany how to hide our powers. He had a lot riding on him. A family to keep safe and provide for. And after Bethany…"

Anders hesitated, wanting to offer comfort. He'd just decided to raise a hand to touch Hawke's shoulder when a shadow fell over both of them. Fenris was looking down at Hawke, who glanced up.

"We should move on," Fenris said simply.

Hawke nodded, and the moment passed. Anders wasn't sure if he was more upset with himself or Fenris for the lost opportunity. They packed up, refilled their canteens and continued the trek. An hour later, they finally saw the large red sails that marked the Dalish aravels. They were still roughly a hundred feet up the hill, but their group was renewed by the prospect of their trek finally ending. Feynriel looked up at Anders, who gave him an encouraging smile.

"It'll be fine," he assured him.

Feynriel nodded. "I know, but… what happens if she says no?"

"Then we find you a new place. Somewhere safe, somewhere away from Kirkwall," Anders promised. "I swear we will not send you to the Templars. I won't allow it."

"Are the Circles really that bad?"

The innocence of the question pulled at his heartstrings. How would it be possible to explain the injustices of the Circle to someone who's always had freedom from them? "It could be the most pleasant place," Anders said carefully. "Warm beds, good food. Friends, teachers. They could even let you see the sunshine. But all that pleasantry can't conceal what it really is. A mask. A façade. A promise of safety from yourself, from demons, from other people who think of you as some sort of freak of nature just because the Maker gave you the gift of magic. The Circles are prisons, Feynriel. They don't have to be unpleasant to be wrong."

It was the hardest realization he'd come to in the Ferelden Circle. Even with his friends, even with Karl. Though Greagoir seemed a kindly, understanding man in comparison to Knight-Commander Meredith, it didn't matter.

"I'm not sure I understand," Feynriel said.

"Let me put it this way," Anders said, as patiently as ever, "I would rather spend a thousand days living in the darkest, dampest parts of the world, starving in squalor, wondering where I was going to get my next meal than ever return to the Circle."

"But… why? Isn't it better to be full and warm?"

"It's easy to trade comforts for freedom. But the easy path isn't always the right one. A prison is still a prison."

Feynriel frowned. "I… I guess."

"You ran away when you heard your mother was going to give you to the Templars," Anders prompted. "Didn't you think that life on the run would be preferable?"

"I was angry. I was scared."

Anders pursed his lips, humming. "Mm. Now imagine that fear as the Templars bear down on your door in the middle of the night because someone from your village told them a mage lived in your house. They bang once then kick it in. Shove your mother aside, wrench you from your bed as you're half-asleep. Clap cold irons on you like you're some kind of criminal. They give you only a minute to say goodbye before you're tossed into a cage on a cart with a half a dozen other scared boys and girls before you're dragged off to a Tower that's to be your home from now on. You're not allowed to ask about your parents, not allowed to write to them."

"That's horrible!"

"And so are the Circles."

Feynriel fell quiet, and Anders almost felt bad for being so blunt. But if Feynriel didn't understand what he was trying to escape, he would fall easy prey to the Templars in the future. The strength of the Dalish only held so much authority over the Chantry, and Anders was under no false impression that the Templars wouldn't bring a full company to raze the camp in order to search for one mageling that slipped from their fingers.

"Hold, shemlen!"

Anders instinctively held out an arm, pressing Feynriel behind him, hand hovering just inches from staff. Two Dalish hunters, arrows trained on their group, stepped out from behind the rocks. Hawke spread his hands in a gesture of peace, bowing his head slightly. Anders saw Fenris reaching for his sword, Varric already gripping his crossbow. But Hawke showed no fear as he spoke.

"We've come in peace in order to bring a message to Keeper Marethari."

The elves conversed quickly in their own language. Anders wondered if Fenris would be able to translate, if he'd ever spent time in the company of other elves or if like most of his city kind, the language, among other histories, were lost to him.

"You're the one the Keeper was waiting for?" asked one, obviously surprised. "I thought you'd be an elf."

Hawke lowered his hands, and the elves lowered their bows. Anders relaxed, but only just. At least they'd gotten safely past the, 'possibly going to be shot on sight' part of their journey. Feynriel next to him was still tense, and Anders guided him gently by the shoulders as the hunters gestured them through to the main camp.

"Tread lightly, shem," the elf continued. "You've no idea how many arrows you've trained on you right now."

Anders had never been inside a Dalish camp before. He didn't imagine it was a privilege most humans were allowed.

"What's a shem?" he heard Hawke ask Fenris.

"It's the elven word for human," Fenris replied. And after a beat, added, "A derogatory one."

Hawke huffed, but said nothing more as they were guided to an elderly woman with white hair. Her eyes were sad, almost as if she was carrying the weight and sorrow of the entire world. Not the entire world, Anders realized, but of all her people. He thought maybe he could understand that just a little. The other elves gave her a respectful berth, bowing low before they left. Hawke started to speak, but Marethari held up a hand.

"Andaran atish'an, traveler."

"She greets you," Fenris translated.

Marethari turned a warm smile onto Fenris, before her expression flickered into concern. She raised a hand toward him, and Fenris stepped back quickly, out of her reach. "Your troubles will continue to follow you, child. You need to find peace within yourself and learn forgiveness before you can truly move on. Suledin, da'mi."

Anders frowned, wondering what she meant by that, and hoped desperately the Keeper wasn't going to offer them all bits of Dalish wisdom in a language he couldn't understand. As fascinating as he found their history, and as awed as he was to be a human in their camp, he had no desire to be broken down in front of the others by someone as discerning as she seemed to be.

"I… ma serannas," Fenris said quickly, the elven words not sounding quite right with his accent. He took another step back, lowering his head.

He was angry. Anders didn't need to know Fenris well to see that in his stance. His fists clenched, and the lyrium markings glowed faintly. Hawke whispered something that even in such close proximity Anders couldn't hear. Fenris shook his head slightly, and Anders felt a growing tendril of jealousy snake its way up into his chest.

"Now," Marethari said, turning her attention back to Hawke. "You have something for me."

Hawke pulled an amulet from his pocket and handed it to her. She took it with long, delicate fingers, examining the silver charm, the blood red center.

"Asha'bellanar."

Anders didn't need a translation for that. He'd heard that name before; it was well known in Ferelden. The Witch of the Wilds. Stories mothers told to their children to warn them about wandering too far into the woods. Stray away from your home, and Flemeth would swoop down and gobble you up. He thought they were old wives tales. Had Hawke actually met her? He glanced at his companion again. Hawke simply nodded, and Marethari handed it back to him.

"You're to take the amulet up the path to the summit where you'll find an altar. There, it needs to be given a Dalish rite of the departed."

Hawke raised an eyebrow. "Of course. I'm afraid I'm rusty on my elven, though. Fenris-"

Fenris shook his head quickly, and Marethari smiled. "My First is just up the hill. She will guide you and perform the rite. And once it's done, I must ask you to take her with you."

Anders frowned. Judging from Hawke's confused expression, this was not what he had been counting on. He started to speak, when Anders stepped forward, bringing Feynriel with him.

"My apologies, Keeper," he broke in. She looked him over, and Anders winced, not wanting to be the subject of her scrutiny. "This is Feynriel."

Feynriel quelled slightly under her gaze. Her appraising look seemed to have that unnerving effect on everyone except Hawke. Feynriel bowed nervously.

"I can feel the magic in you, child. Come here, let me see you."

Anders gently guided Feynriel in front of Marethari, squeezing his shoulder reassuringly before letting him go. "We were hoping you could help him. Your clan," Anders said. "His mother was going to send him to the Templars."

Marethari looked Feynriel over, paused in contemplation, then nodded. "We will do what we can for you, da'len. You are welcome among our clan."

It was easier than Anders had anticipated, and when Feynriel looked back at him again, he smiled and nodded encouragingly.

"Then… thank you, Keeper," Feynriel said hesitantly. "M-ma serannas."

Maker, it sounded even worse from Feynriel. But Marethari only smiled and gestured up the path. Lovely, Anders thought, more hiking. They thanked her, promising to say farewell to Feynriel before they left for good. A few feet up the winding path, just past the first bend, they saw a lone figure in the grass, head bent low over something.

"Are you sure this is a good idea, Hawke?" Varric asked. "Taking a Dalish back with us to Kirkwall. That old elf wasn't too forthcoming with why. Do you think she broke one of their rules?"

"I was tasked to do as Marethari asked. My obligation to her ends with bringing her First back to Kirkwall."

"One has to wonder though," Fenris said quietly, "why a Dalish would want to live among humans. Even if she's never seen the alienage, city elves are looked down upon as having given up their culture for convenience. As important as keeping history is to the Dalish, it seems a bit odd."

"It's difficult not having a place in the world," Anders snapped. "To not have a home. If she's being forced to leave, I think we should show her compassion."

Fenris scowled, but kept his head down. "And what of her crimes? She could be a danger to the other elves in the city."

"We don't know that any crimes have even been committed. It could be her choice, even," Anders argued. "Leave it to you to judge before even meeting her." He realized he'd been holding back his anger, containing the desire to confront Fenris and his quick conclusion of Anders' own character.

Their conversation alerted the subject of their argument. She stood quickly and turned, her eyes wide, even for an elf. Immediately her face broke into a smile and Anders found it difficult not to return it. Instantly, he felt her likability, and when she spoke, it was in a hurried, almost bubbly tone.

"Aneth ara! I'm Merrill, the Keeper's First. But oh, you probably knew that. Are you ready to go?" She covered her mouth quickly, almost as if she'd said something foul. "Abelas! I did not ask you your name. Unless… is it rude to ask humans their names? I'm sorry, I don't have much experience with your kind. Not by choice, I mean, we don't stop in human towns at all and if we're near them, the Keeper sends others, not me. I'm sort of a lone wolf, I'd say. It's – I'm babbling now. I'm sorry."

There was a bewildered silence as the four of them processed what was just said. Fenris had cocked his head to the side in apparent scrutiny, though his normal look of irritation had dissipated for the moment. Hawke raised an eyebrow, lips pursed, and Varric merely chuckled, breaking the tension. Merrill let out a shaky laugh.

"You can call me Hawke," Hawke said, then gestured to each of them, naming them in turn. Merrill bowed slightly. "Keeper Marethari says you're our guide."

"What? Oh yes! We should get going. It's not a very long hike, fortunately. We shouldn't keep Asha'bellanar waiting."

"Lead the way," Hawke said, exchanging a look with Varric.

Anders caught Fenris's eye and smirked. So much for dangerous criminal. Fenris scowled and dropped his eyes again, forging ahead to walk even with Merrill, who seemed delighted for the company.

"Are you Dalish? I've never seen markings quite like those. They don't appear to be Vallaslin." She reached out, and Fenris jerked back reactively. "I'm sorry!"

"It… is fine," he grumbled. "They're lyrium."

"What, real lyrium?" Merrill asked, genuinely concerned. "Why would anyone want to put lyrium into their skin? It sounds an awfully painful process. A bit silly if you ask me."

Anders saw Hawke exchange another look with Varric. From their expressions he could tell that they knew the story, or at least most of it. The former stepped forward as Fenris replied.

"It was not by choice," Anders heard Fenris say before Hawke cut in.

"Will the ritual take long?"

Merrill immediately addressed Hawke, seemingly forgetting about Fenris for the moment, and Anders wondered if she could stay focused on any one subject for longer than a few minutes. She reminded him of a hummingbird, flitting easily from flower to flower. Small, colorful and pretty. He wouldn't mind speaking with her more about the Dalish and their history.

"Oh not really. It's sort of like a funeral."

"Seems odd, a funeral for an amulet," Hawke said.

Anders felt it first, rather than saw it. Something evil, something dark, and something very, very powerful. Hawke sensed it as well, staff in hand almost at once. Next to Anders, Fenris's lyrium tattoos sprang to luminescence and Varric muttered a curse under his breath. Though with his dwarven blood, he likely couldn't feel what the others felt, a mist formed around them slowly until the mountain itself disappeared. Anders reached out tentatively, gripping onto someone's wrist.

"Mage."

The Maker had a wonderful sense of humor, Anders thought. Ignoring the derision in Fenris's tone, he removed his staff and moved so that his back was pressed to Fenris's. "This magic is very old. It's almost as if the Veil itself has torn. I've felt this before."

He could feel Fenris hesitating, as if he'd rather do anything but speak to him. "What happens next?"

"If we're lucky," Anders said, knocking the end of his staff on the ground, alighting a circular pattern around them, "nothing."

"And if not?" Fenris prompted.

"Fade demons."

"Wonderful."

Normally it took a very powerful magic to bring demons in the world through the Fade. The most common way that Anders knew was through blood. But the Veil was torn in places where horrible events happened, and he felt that here. The spirits of the dead from ancient battles, a mountain soaked in blood. The glyph would repulse any oncoming attackers, spirit or otherwise, but it wouldn't hold forever. They needed to move.

"Hawke?" Fenris called through the mist.

Anders chanced a glance over his shoulder toward what Fenris was looking at. A shadow, something shambling toward them. Not Hawke. A corpse. A walking skeleton held together by sinew and magic. It carried a rusty iron sword and shield, arrows protruding from its joints and eye socket. He felt Fenris lunge forward to attack. The skeleton was slow, years of deterioration making it impossible to swing a sword the way it used to. Then suddenly three more appeared, as if from the mist itself.

Fenris was like a ghost through the fog, enveloped in lyrium, and Anders felt his own power increase. He spun his staff once, lifted it to the heavens and pulled down a bolt of lightning. It struck one corpse before skittering across the ground to burn another. Their lungs no longer functional, the skeletons couldn't scream, only opened their mouths wide with anguish as they clattered to the ground. Fenris ducked a blow and lobbed the head from a third. Anders heard it crack against rock, then skitter down the side of the mountain. It seemed like it was over, and then the bones shook again, rolling together as if pushed by a violent wind. Seconds later, something monstrous formed, a towering beast of bone and rotted flesh standing at least twenty feet tall.

"Maker's breath," Anders gasped, looking up at it.

"Brace yourself," Fenris growled, redoubling the grip on his sword.

Suddenly from beyond the mist he heard chanting in elven. The mist began to clear. Merrill stood, feet spread, palms together, elbows out. Her eyes were open and she no longer reminded him of a hummingbird. More like a raven, dark and powerful and dangerous. Around her, tendrils of root burst from the ground, sharp and thorny and wicked-looking. They disappeared into the soil, then reappeared several feet away, twisting up around the skeleton's legs. It clicked its jaw frantically, trying to scream as the roots yanked it down into the ground. Fenris shoved Anders back from the gaping maw that formed. Anders tripped and they fell hard to the ground, but safe.

Behind them, Hawke and Varric rushed forward, having heard the commotion now with the oppressive fog lifted. The ground closed up as quickly as it had opened, and Merrill dropped her hands, panting, but smiling. With a delicate hand, she brushed a lock of hair back behind her ear.

"Well. That was exciting."

Fenris shoved himself away from Anders, springing to his feet and rushing the gap to her. She scrambled back quickly in fear, yelping as he grabbed her by the shoulders. "Are you insane? You could have killed us!"

Anders started to get to his feet, but Varric was quicker. A crossbow bolt flew past his head and caught Fenris's armor in his calf, bringing him to the ground without injuring him. Fenris turned his wrath on Varric, but Hawke had already stepped forward.

"Stop it. She saved your lives."

"You didn't see," Fenris snarled, pulling the bolt from his plate. He tossed it aside viciously, standing and rounding on Hawke. "We could've been swallowed up along with that thing."

"But you weren't!" Merrill said placatingly.

"But you weren't," Hawke agreed, crossing his arms.

Anders could only see the back of Hawke, but he imagined the look he was giving Fenris. Even Merrill had to cast her eyes away, bouncing on the balls of her heels a bit. Fenris bared his teeth, but eventually relented, stalking back to pick up his sword.

"Just keep her away from me."

"What, and have her miss out on your charming personality?" Anders quipped, unable to help himself.

"I am sorry for saving your life," Merrill said, and her tone indicated that she was completely serious.

Anders wondered if she was being genuine or if she simply hid her sarcasm well. He brushed himself off and looked to Varric, who simply shook his head with an exasperated expression. Hawke gestured to Merrill whose smile didn't quite reach her eyes now, and continued to lead them up the mountain.

"I really am sorry," she said again. "I didn't mean to hurt anyone."

"You didn't," Hawke said, shooting a look back to Fenris.

Fenris huffed but didn't reply, falling back to take up the rear position away from the others.

"Keeper Marethari didn't tell us you were a mage," Hawke continued, his tone apologetic.

"All Keepers know a bit of old magic," Merrill explained. She held out her hand and a ball of light formed quickly in her palm.

They stepped into the cave ahead of them and Anders wished, not for the first time, that one of their endeavors could involve wide open plains or perhaps even a forest. He'd even prefer a desert wasteland to another bloody cavern. The caves of Sundermount were different than the ones off the Wounded Coast, though. High ceilings littered with stalactites and glittering gemstones. It was a wonder they hadn't all been mined. There was a cool, comforting air to it, and in just a few minutes and several twisting turns, they were on the other side and out.

"I learned because I was to be the next Keeper until…" She trailed off, closing her fist and extinguishing the light. "Well, that's behind me now. Once we're finished, I'll be traveling with you to Kirkwall. If… if that's all right?"

Hawke nodded. "Marethari said. We'd be honored to assist."

"I promise I won't be a burden," she said eagerly.

"I'm sure you won't. You were a great help in that fight."

"I swear I'll try not to hit anyone if that happens again. On our side, I mean," she added hurriedly with a shaky laugh.

Hawke gently touched her arm. "You did well. The magic was impressive."

Beside Anders, Varric shook his head. "He's smooth," Varric whispered in reply to Anders' questioning look.

Anders frowned. He didn't think Hawke had been flirting with her. She was pretty enough, he supposed. Her short dark hair and shining eyes gave her more of a pixie look than her fellow elves. Her flightiness didn't strike him as a particular character trait that someone like Hawke would be able to manage for longer lengths of time. Still, Varric did know Hawke better than he did; perhaps Anders was wrong.

The path narrowed in front of them, two stone pillars set in the rocks, creating an archway. It was difficult to see what was beyond them, as a bluish field of energy pulsed between them. Anders frowned; this wasn't magic he was familiar with. Clearly Sundermount held more secrets than he'd ever be able to unravel.

"I can get us through," Merrill said, approaching the barrier. She took a breath, drew a dragger and sliced her palm.

Anders felt his stomach turn, eyes widening in horror as he realized what she was about to do. "No!"

Tendrils of magic carried the blood forward into the energy field. It absorbed the blood, pulsated, flickered, and disappeared. Merrill replaced her dagger and turned to them, a bit sheepish.

"That was blood magic!" Anders exclaimed, stepping forward, past Hawke. "Are you crazy? Do you even realize what could have happened? How dangerous that is?"

"Well, yes of course," she said quickly. "I mean, I did it to get us through the barrier."

"You have to consort with demons to use blood magic. You could've made a mistake. It could've possessed you!" His anger mixed slightly with panic, and even Hawke's hand on his shoulder couldn't calm him.

"It could have," she agreed, and it was in that same placating tone she'd used with Fenris. "But it didn't. I know what I'm doing. It helped us."

"Oh sure, it helps you now, but later," Anders said, gesturing toward her sliced palm. "Later it's face-eating time."

Merrill frowned. "I don't think demons actually eat faces, Anders. I think they'd rather have the whole thing. It seems awfully silly just to eat one part when they could have the entire person."

The statement was so utterly ridiculous that he couldn't even argue. He stared at her, mouth slightly open. Hawke took Merrill's hand gently and held it out to him. Shaking his head, Anders covered her palm with his own. In seconds, the cut mended.

"Oh that's handy! Get it?" she asked, grinning. "Handy!" She wiggled her fingers and turned down the stone staircase beyond the pillars.

Hawke looked at Anders, dumbfounded. Anders simply shook his head and looked down at their hands. He absentmindedly traced a scar on Hawke's knuckle before he realized what he was doing and pulled away as if burned.

"She dangerous," he said quickly. "She doesn't know what she's playing with."

"And now you see," Fenris said, pushing past them to follow her down the steps.

Anders thought that was unfair, but he didn't feel this was the time to argue the difference between mages and maleficarum. He, Hawke and Varric followed, glancing around at the stones that were seemingly placed at random around the clearing.

"It's Uthenera," Merrill explained. "The eternal waking dream. In ancient times, the elvhen would come here to sleep." She spoke of them with reverence in her voice. "They came to Sundermount because it is setheneran. In their dreams they would visit the Beyond and finally find peace."

"Until they were slaughtered by Tevinter magisters," Fenris grumbled. 

"Yes, that's true," Merrill said. "But the history is muddled. It was Arlathan, our home. Though the texts are biased. It's unknown who started the battle or why."

"The magisters only thirst is for power. The elves were in their way," Fenris continued, as if it was that simple.

Merrill touched a stone and whispered something in elven before stepping away. "History is about seeing both sides and understanding the cause, not dwelling on the result."

"Wise words from a blood mage," said Fenris, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Merrill frowned. "We should go. We shouldn't keep Asha'bellanar waiting. She can be impatient."

She turned on her heel and continued up the other side of the clearing. Overlooking the ridge sat a large stone altar, almost completely unremarkable aside from a deep red stain. Anders didn't want to think about what other uses this place had in the past. Hawke handed the amulet to Merrill who set it on the stone.

Anders listened as she recited a poem in elven. The words were incomprehensible to him, but they were sad, almost wistful. The amulet began to glow. As Merrill finished, it broke apart, a flash of blinding white light causing them all to raise their arms and turn from the radiance. A second later and it was over. The amulet was gone, and standing in front of the altar was a woman dressed in red studded leather, her white hair twisted back like the horns of a Qunari. She surveyed them with bright yellow, cat-like eyes that finally fell on Hawke. Her lips, the color of rich, Antivan red wine, curled into a smile.

"Hawke."


	5. Chapter 5

The name rolled off her tongue like honey, rich and sweet. Her lips curled a way that made her appear perpetually amused, and perhaps she was. Who knew what went on in Flemeth's mind? If she was the real Witch of the Wilds, Anders thought, she was very old, very powerful, and not someone he wanted to get on the wrong side of. In the tales, she could kill a man with just one look, or entrance him with a different one. She was a spider, weaving her web, catching her victims and either setting them free or sucking them dry. Anders desperately hoped she was in an amiable mood today.

"Maker's breath, Hawke," Varric breathed. "You have better connections than I do. Hah!" Though his words were wry, his voice betrayed his nervousness. A storyteller like Varric would know all about the legend of Flemeth.

Hawke shot him a look before turning back to her, confusion apparent on his face. Before he could speak, Merrill had stepped forward into a low curtsy.

"Andaran atish'an, Asha'bellanar."

Flemeth's cool yellow eyes slid from Hawke to Merrill. She paused for a moment, looking her up and down and Anders had the impression of a cat about to pounce on its next meal. "One of the people," she said appraisingly. "Tell me child, do you know who I am beyond that name?" She stepped closer to Merrill who, to her credit, did not step back.

Merrill's brow creased and she looked up. "I…"

"You are too quick to bend the knee. I thank you for your assistance," Flemeth said almost dismissively before turning right back again to Hawke.

Merrill straightened, still frowning a bit.

"You tricked me," Hawke said, indignant. "You were in the amulet the entire time."

Anders tried to piece together what he could from the conversation. Hawke had met her, Flemeth. And she tasked him to bring the amulet here. He wondered when they'd met and why Hawke agreed to perform a task for such a powerful woman. A favor, perhaps? The stories were full of men in the Wilds, Chasind or otherwise, making deals with Flemeth. There'd even been a rumor that Maric himself had made a deal with her, but Anders wasn't sure if that was real or just an embellishment to try to make Maric seemed greater than he'd actually been. He wouldn't put it past an old stuffy king to pad out the story.

"And how did I trick you?" Flemeth asked, crossing her arms over her chest. 

Her leather bodice emphasized her beauty, beauty that a woman her age had no right to possess. Anders found himself unconsciously licking his lips, eyes flicking from the sleek black feathers of her mantle to the tantalizing window of cleavage. Just enough to tease, yet still somehow be modest.

"I never said I wasn't in the amulet. It was just a small piece though," Flemeth acceded, as if that made the deception acceptable. "But a necessary one, if I'm correct in my assumptions." Her lips pursed, then curled up again. "And I usually am. If I know my Morrigan, the steps I've taken to preserve myself will not go without their uses."

Beside Anders, Fenris had taken several steps back, as if trying to remain unnoticed by Flemeth. Her appearance seemed to unnerve him more than anyone. Unluckily for him, she noticed him now and approached. He brought his hand back to the pommel of his sword then seemed to think better, and simply dropped it by his side. His gaze, Anders noticed, stayed fixed somewhere around her knees. For whatever reason, he seemed to have an issue looking people in the eye and Flemeth was no exception.

"No doubt Marethari has already said her piece about you," Flemeth chuckled. "And why not? You are a very, very interesting specimen, aren't you?" She seemed almost delighted with his discomfort, and even circled him, making him jump a bit.

Anders thought he'd never get that voice out of his head. It wasn't unpleasant, and that's what bothered him. There was something lyrical about it, deep and sensuous; it pulled at his brain as if there was magic in her vocal chords. There probably was, he thought. Like a siren's call, it echoed. He pressed a hand to his forehead, rubbing gently.

Fenris grunted and turned his head aside, stepping away from her again when she got too close. "Witch," he managed through gritted teeth.

"I've been called that, yes. And much worse, by people much more important than yourself."

Fenris took offense to the statement, but knew better than to make a retort. 

"If you intended it to be an insult," Flemeth continued, coming to stop in front of him, "rest assured, I'm quite familiar with rudeness, even among your kind." She reached out and Fenris flinched as she tapped him delicately on the forehead, laughing softly.

Anders tried to feel bad for him, but found no sympathy. Perhaps if Fenris had been a bit nicer or had gotten to know him before passing judgment, he might have been able to dig up a bit of compassion for the scrutiny. But all too soon, Flemeth was turning to him, her eyes widening a bit, then scrunching up as she grinned, bearing her too-white teeth.

"And you, my Grey Warden."

Anders supposed it was only natural she knew who he was. He didn't bother to ask; perhaps it was a form of mind-reading. Maybe she had access to the Warden-Commander's list of recruits. Possibly her latest victim was a Warden-Commander. He could only be so lucky, though. Or maybe, and this was the most likely reason, like any predator, she simply smelled it on her prey. He wondered if the darkspawn taint had a smell. No one had complained thus far. Her eyes bore into him, and he felt them burning into his very core.

She leaned close, lips brushing his ear and causing him to shiver, and whispered, "It is imperative more than ever that you stay close to the one who will become the most important to you, lest you forget what is most important above all."

"I… beg your pardon?" Anders asked, bewildered. He felt the goosebumps rising along his arm and he shrugged a shoulder, still able to feel her breath against his cheek though she'd pulled away. 

He hadn't the faintest idea what she meant. But that, he supposed, was the case when it came to Flemeth. Maybe that's what made her so mysterious after all. Swooping in, stating a few cryptic lines, and swooping out again.

Flemeth chuckled at his confusion, but did not elaborate before she looked at Varric, who held up his hands in surrender. 

"Look, lady, I'm not really into the whole fortune-telling thing. If I need it, I'll find a crystal ball and burn some herbs. Maybe sacrifice a goat to some black gods or something."

Though Anders hadn't known Varric long, it was odd to see him so unnerved. What little he knew about dwarves left him with the impression that they weren't easily flappable and Varric was no exception to that. At least when it came to dealing with things he was familiar with. Apparently ancient legends materializing from amulets was something beyond his comfort zone.

"Mm. The storyteller. What kind of ending will you be writing to this tale, I wonder?" she postured.

"You'd know better than me," Varric said, his tone stating clearly that he hoped there wasn't anything more personal she had to say. "But I'm hoping it ends with, 'And the lovable dwarf made lots of coin and lived happily ever after in a big house with no more troubles.'"

"Perhaps it will," Flemeth agreed, amused. "But the future was never set in stone. Time is always changing, always fluctuating, and your part to play is larger than you think. You might even been the leading man."

"Not bloody likely," Varric grunted, his tone indicating that he was much more comfortable behind the curtain than in front of it.

She turned back again to Hawke. "Your task is done. But I offer you some advice that comes without a price." She started to slowly pace back and forth in front of all of them. "We are at a crossroads. All of Thedas is holding its breath. We stand upon the precipice of change. The world fears the inevitable plummet into the abyss. Watch for that moment... and when it comes, do not hesitate to leap." She grinned, arms gesturing wildly before pulling them back down, hugging herself momentarily, then letting them drop. "For it is only when you fall that you learn whether you can fly."

Hawke frowned. "Cheap advice, coming from a shape shifting dragon."

"It is advice, cheap or not," she replied, nonplussed. "You take it or you leave it. The decision bothers me none, but you may want to consider exactly for whom you are fighting. As for you," she added, turning to Merrill, "the path is never darker than when you travel with your eyes tightly shut."

"Ma serannas, Asha'bellanar," Merrill said with another curtsy, and Anders wondered if she'd heard a word that Flemeth had said.

Flemeth strode up the short hill, lifting one boot onto the altar before looking over her shoulder at Hawke. "I thank you for your service. And the world will thank you as well, if I am right about what's to come." She stepped up, turning around to face them, arms spread. "And let's face it, I usually am."

More gracefully than Anders had seen anyone move, she took a leap backwards off the cliff. Merrill ran forward, stopping short and throwing up an arm as they all did to shield their eyes from a bright white light. A huge black and purple dragon soared upward only to dive down again before executing a turn, then disappeared off over the horizon. Anders stared until it became only a dot in the sky.

Varric was the first one to speak. "I could use a drink. Who wants a drink? Let's get a drink."

Anders had to agree with him, and even Hawke nodded. He looked unnerved, and Anders reached out impulsively, touching his shoulder. Hawke looked at him, offering a tight-lipped smile.

"I'm fine. We should go."

He pulled away and Anders felt his fingertips tingle slightly from the skin on skin contact. Maker, what was he doing? He hurried after the others, not wanting to be left behind on the mountain.

They hiked back down without a word, all of them lost inside their own heads. Anders turned the words Flemeth spoke to him over and over. He wasn't necessarily one to take fortune telling to heart, but this was no mere hedge witch. The last part of the statement was easy to deconstruct. What was most important above all to him? The freedom of his fellow mages. The abolition of the Circles. A way for mages to govern themselves. But the one who would become most important to him. Perhaps she meant Justice? Could she tell that he'd taken him into himself? It was likely, considering. Regardless, when they reached the Dalish camp, he avoided Marethari and spoke only to Feynriel to say his goodbyes. He'd had enough of old, powerful, mystical women for one day.

Marethari was the only one to say good-bye to Merrill as she took up her pack. Hawke asked quietly if there was anything she needed to do before she left, but Merrill only shook her head. Anders wondered idly if it had something to do with the blood magic. Even the Dalish had to know how dangerous it was, what the risks were. But before he could say anything, Fenris had started to speak.

"Why are they kicking you out?"

Anders recognized this tact. Fenris had come under scrutiny from both Marethari and Flemeth and it seemed he wasn't very pleased. It was only speculation on his part, but Anders knew the type. He'd seen it in the Templars whenever they were disciplined. They would immediately turn around and pick on the apprentices. He'd gotten into many fights, drawing their ire from the younger children and onto himself. It was worth all the time in solitary, and he would do it again.

"They're not… not really," Merrill said, a frown creasing her brow. "I just have to leave. I'm pursuing a piece of our history and they're not… overly fond of…"

"We can help you find a place," Anders said, taking pity on her. He'd never met a blood mage quite like Merrill. It certainly didn't excuse her use of it, her willingness to submit to a demon for aid. However, he didn't care for Fenris. And an enemy of his enemy was a friend. "Once we get to Kirkwall. I'm sure there will be an empty apartment in the alienage. Right, Varric?"

"Hm? Why me?"

"Because you know everything, right?" Anders prodded.

Varric laughed, a short sound of amusement. "Got me there, Blondie. All right, we'll see what we can do."

Anders started to call out to Hawke to see if he was in agreement, but Fenris had walked ahead to catch up with him, and they spoke quietly, heads inclined toward one another. The slight happiness he felt a moment ago was quashed, and he fell silent.

_You're an idiot,_ he thought, _to think that there could be anything else there._

-

The trip back to Kirkwall took them what was left of the day and into the night. Merrill positively squealed when she saw the gates, running ahead a few feet only to stop to make sure Hawke and the others were following her. Anders was reminded of an overexcited child given too much sugar and freedom. He hoped Lowtown wouldn't chew her up and spit her out. Fenris took his leave, Anders noting that he headed up the steps toward Hightown and wondered just how someone like him could afford a residence there. The prickle of jealousy was back and he stamped on it quickly.

"Oh it's so big," Merrill said with a gasp. Her eyes darted every which way.

"Just wait until the markets open in the morning," Varric said. "The square fills up with people doing their shopping, shopkeepers hawking their wares, town criers all over the place. It's a mess and it's glorious."

"You take revelry in chaos," Anders noted.

Varric turned, gesturing out over Lowtown. "It makes for the best stories!"

Anders couldn't help but return Varric's infectious grin. He found himself warming quite quickly to him, the dwarf's treatment of Feynriel being the biggest icebreaker. Following him and Hawke into the alienage, he realized that Merrill had stopped at the top of the steps. Frowning, he walked back up to her.

"Are you all right?" he asked, placing a hand on her shoulder.

Merrill looked around the square, fingertips touching her lips in a gesture of disbelief. "I just… I've never seen so many people in one place before."

Despite the late hour, several dozen elves were still milling about, grouped together to talk quietly. A few looked up, glancing at the humans in their midst. Hawke was already approaching a woman with reddish gold hair, but Anders was too far away to hear their conversation. She seemed upset, and Hawke took her by the shoulders.

"It seems so… so lonely," Merrill said finally.

Anders took her hand and led her down the steps. "You should see where I live," he said with a laugh. "This is a paradise in comparison. You'll get used to it. And you'll make friends quickly." So long as she didn't go slitting her wrists and consorting with demons in the square, of course.

The woman Hawke had been speaking to turned on her heel and hurried into an apartment, clanging the door shut. Anders gave him a questioning look.

"Feynriel's mother," Hawke explained.

Ah. That made sense. "She'll understand that the Circle wasn't an option," Anders said. "The Dalish will take care of him."

"Perhaps… perhaps I could speak to her. Eventually, I mean," Merrill elaborated. "When she's not so upset. I could tell her about the people of my clan." She looked from Hawke to Anders for approval.

"She'd probably like that," Anders agreed.

Varric approached, holding out a key to Merrill. "I spoke with uh… that guy over there. The one who runs this place."

"A hahren," Merrill explained. "City elves should still follow an elder, despite… despite how they live."

Varric shrugged. "Uh. Yeah. Sure, whatever, Daisy. That one's yours." He gestured across the square. "It's got a bed he tells me, table and chairs. They collect taxes on the first of the month but it's cheap."

"I'll have to get a job," Merrill said despairingly.

"I wouldn't worry so much about it. The elves here take care of their own," Varric said. "Just talk to a couple of people. You're sweet. They'll help you."

"Thank you. Thank you for everything, all of you." Merrill gently squeezed Anders' hand, clasped Varric on the shoulder, then turned to Hawke. "I really appreciate it. Could you… maybe come and visit me? Not now, I mean, but sometime?" She clasped her hands together, almost as if she were begging him, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

Hawke nodded. "Of course."

She leaned up and kissed his cheek. "Ma serannas, Hawke. Thank you." With a grin and a wave, she nearly skipped across the square and let herself into her new home.

Varric chuckled. "Someone's got a crush. Big strong hero." He nudged Hawke in the side, grinning.

Hawke scowled and pulled his hood up. "Leave it."

Anders followed them out of the alienage, wondering how far off the mark Varric was. They'd only just met Merrill, and her actions were extremely queer. Every blood mage he'd ever met – and admittedly there weren't many he'd actually had conversations with – all seemed positively crazy. Merrill was odd, but she wasn't insane. She was sweet. And, he supposed, somewhat pretty in the way all elven women were. Did Hawke favor elves then? His quiet conversations with Fenris certainly seemed to imply that. Lost in thought, he found himself following them to the Hanged Man, startling as Hawke held the door open for him.

"Oh. No. I should go. I've been neglecting my patients. I'm sure I've missed quite a few refugees needing my help," he said apologetically.

"Of course."

Was that a hint of disappointment in Hawke's voice? Anders hesitated, licking his lips as he tried to decide what to do. He could stay and lose at cards and get drunk with Hawke and Varric or he could head back to his clinic and work on new ideas for the next steps to take in getting a new contact inside the Circle. As attractive the former choice was, he knew what he needed to do.

"But keep me in the loop," he said, trying to sound cheerful. He thought it came out a bit harsh. "If you ever need my help again, I mean. You know where to find me so… keep in touch."

Hawke nodded, and disappeared into the tavern. Anders watched the door shut and immediately brought palm to face, sighing. He walked around the corner and up the steps.

"Keep in touch. What a wanker," he muttered to himself. "Good job, Anders. So smooth."

He'd been out of the game for too long, his last affair brief but satisfying before he had to leave Amaranthine. It wouldn't have worked out anyway. Even though Nathaniel was a Grey Warden, he was still a noble and still expected to redeem his family name at least in part. Keeping an apostate by his side wasn't the way to do that. Still, they'd parted on friendly terms, and Ser Pounce-a-Lot had a nice warm home in a castle with all the rats he could chase. Feeling terribly wistful and more than nostalgic, Anders let himself into a Lowtown apartment, a door that was always open to him. He wasn't quite ready to be alone yet.

"Anders!"

He grinned briefly at the enthusiastic greeting, Lirene extricating herself from the small crowd of people around her counter to cross the room. He relished the hug, squeezing her tightly as she embraced him. She was one of the people who'd been on his boat when they landed. Her son was ill, some kind of flu that he hadn't been able to shake. Though Anders had sworn to himself he wouldn't get involved, he couldn't stand to see the boy suffer. He'd used magic to heal him, and Lirene had been an indispensable friend ever since.

"Ginny, take over a moment, please," she asked another harried-looking woman before pulling Anders into a side room.

The door shut, blocking out most of the noise, and Lirene was quick to usher him into an uncomfortable chair and pour him a cup of lukewarm tea. Anders didn't care; he didn't visit Lirene for the décor or the refreshments.

"I was so worried when that man came looking for you. I thought he might've been a Templar sympathizer. He all but bullied the information out of me to found out where you were. Said he needed some maps you had," she explained in a rush, brushing her dark brown hair behind her ears. She settled across the table from him, offering him a plate of cookies. "They're not as good as the ones you find in the Bannorn," she said. "But they'll do."

He took one out of propriety more than a desire for the sweet. "You're talking about Hawke?"

"Mmhm. That one's trouble, he is. Been making quite a racket around Kirkwall, I've heard." She sat back, arranging her patched, frayed skirts as she crossed her legs.

Anders eyes flicked down to her bare feet, a slim, delicate ankle. Had it been any other time, any other place, he'd have made a comment on the scandalous nature of her unclothed ankle. They would tease one another and it would end with a tumble in her bed. She certainly made no secret about the open invitation he had. In his experience, Ferelden women – even the nobles – were always very upfront in their desires. It was a shame he met her so late in his journey, she really was quite pretty, and extremely shrewd.

"What else have you heard?" Anders asked, sipping his tea and leaning forward, eyes returning to her face. He felt like a middle-aged housewife, gossiping with his girlfriend about the cute new neighbor. Still, he reasoned, it didn't hurt to get to know a potential ally a bit better. And if Lirene had information on Hawke, he wasn't about to pass it up.

"They say he got his friend a job in the guard and somehow framed the old captain so they'd promote her instead. Some old soldier with an Orlesian name. Avarice. Ava something," Lirene said, dipping her cookie into her tea.

"Aveline?" Anders guessed, remembering the old song.

"That's the one!" Lirene said, smacking him gently with the back of her hand. "Anyway, he's been doing a lot of odd jobs around Kirkwall, cleaning up gangs at night for coin, stopping raids along the coast. Apparently he's quite the fighter."

"He's saving money for an expedition to the Deep Roads," Anders explained. "That's why he needed my maps." He kept his tone neutral, not wanting Lirene to catch wise about his true reasoning for asking after Hawke.

"Oh well I don't envy him," Lirene said, taking a bite of her cookie. "Horrible stories. No reason to go down there, even to chase after treasures. Nothing down there but dirt and bones, mark my words." She pointed at him for emphasis before continuing. "You ever go there? The Deep Roads? Being a Warden and all."

"Never had the pleasure," Anders lied through his teeth. The less he remembered about the Deep Roads, the Architect and the… horrors, the better. And anyone who knew he'd been down there inevitably wanted stories. It was like asking someone to relive their worst nightmares over and over again. He shut his eyes briefly, shaking his head. "Anything else?" he asked, taking another sip of tea.

"Well let's see. He's got himself a friend in Hightown, an elf."

Anders bristled.

"Don't know much about him, but he's kind of weird, has these markings. People say he's from Tevinter. Nasty place. I never would want to go there. Of course, I don't much want to stay here either, but it's a good a place as any until they get things sorted back home."

"Tevinter?" The Imperium was a place a fascination for him. Mages were free there, the Circle more of a council of government than a prison. Unfortunately there hadn't been many texts on Tevinter in the tower. Likely to keep anyone like him from learning too much and getting ideas.

"That's just a rumor, sweetie," Lirene continued. "But he's got that look about him, doesn't it?"

"What look?" Anders asked, finishing his tea.

"Right nasty."

Anders laughed, unable to argue. "He's… definitely got that."

"Oh!" Lirene said, suddenly remembering something. She got up and crossed the room to a small writing desk, shuffling papers before pulling one out. "Here, someone you ought to talk to."

Anders frowned and took the paper, reading it over. 'Friends of the Mages calls any and all willing and able people of Kirkwall to band together to expose the unjust corruption of the Circle in our fair city. If you're willing to stand with us, come to the Lowtown docks at midnight.'

"That rally was a few days ago that's passed," Lirene explained. "I would've sent someone for you but you were never in."

"I've been mostly making house calls," he explained, setting the paper down. "Too easy for the Templars to find my door when it's always open."

"Ah, an unfortunate necessity," Lirene agreed. "But I know the woman. She comes in here a lot, makes donations and I let her hand out her flyers. "Her name's Selby. I bet if you asked around enough, you'd be able to find her. See if there's anything you can do to help."

"I will," Anders said, standing. "Thank you, Lirene, for everything. I'll see what I can do about sending more supplies your way."

Lirene pulled open her side drawer and took out a pouch, handing it to him. "Here, for you."

"I can't take from you," he said, shaking his head. "The refugees…"

"It's lyrium. And elfroot. No one I know needs it more than you, love." She shook it a little, smiling. "Go on."

Anders hesitated, but reached out and wrapped his fingers around the leather pouch. Lirene smiled, satisfied. She leaned up and hugged him again, and he returned it.

"Don't be a stranger," she said, walking him through the shop.

"I won't. I promise."

He looked inside the pouch once the door shut. Six good sized vials of lyrium, several ounces of elfroot and – damn her – two sovereigns at the very bottom. He had half a mind to go back in and drop the coins in her donation box, but the money was sorely needed, not least of all so he could feed himself. The meager meal he'd had on Sundermount that afternoon seemed ages ago and his stomach twisted and gurgled. Maybe he should have eaten a cookie or two. The shops were closed except for the Hanged Man, or he supposed he could visit the pot shops in Darktown, though you really never knew what you were eating if you went there.

Feeling a bit lost, he looked to his right, a quick path that would take him to Darktown, to his clinic, likely empty and cold. To a hard cot and another sleepless night. And to his left, the fastest way back to the Hanged Man. A warm yet rowdy tavern that promised at least two friends and a semi-decent meal. Closing the pouch, he tucked it in his robes, weighing the decision.

Making up his mind, he turned right and slipped through the shadows, avoiding the city guard patrol. He could ignore the ache in his stomach for another few hours. Letting himself into his clinic, he lit the lamps though he didn't really expect any patients, and sat down in the empty room to continue writing.


	6. Chapter 6

A loud banging on his door startled him into consciousness the next morning. The sun had only just started to rise, the clinic still dark, the barest bit of light peeking through the high windows. His hand was cramped, clutching a feather quill, and his cheek ached where he'd fallen asleep face down on his latest work. A small patch of drool on the paper smudged the ink, and Anders scrubbed at his face, groggy and sore. The door shook again and panic shot through him.

"Break it down."

_Shit!_

He quickly scrambled, grabbing up his papers and shoving them into a book before taking his staff and darting to the corner of the clinic. Pulling back a dirty rug, he lifted a sewer grate. It had been one of the reasons he chose this place; a quick escape route meant safety. If he could get there fast enough. He slipped down, pulling the cover over his head, ignoring the slick, slimy rungs of the ladder as he descended. Above him, he heard the commotion.

"Search it. He's got to be in here somewhere."

Heart pounding, Anders waited, hoping they would see the empty clinic and move on. It felt inevitable that they'd eventually find him, his name not exactly kept a secret among refugees and Kirkwallers alike, but he had hoped for a few more weeks of sanctity before being raided by the Templars.

"Over here! There's a sewer grate."

Void take them all. Anders cursed his luck and started down the passage. There would be no waiting them out. The most he could hope for was that his carefully hidden supplies wouldn't be discovered and destroyed. Tables and linens were easier to come by, but elfroot could be expensive and difficult to find. His boots sloshed in the muck and he squinted in the dark, not daring to use a spell to light the way. He heard the sewer grate slide open.

"Ugh. I'm not going in there."

The voice echoed off the wall and even though his pursuers were far behind him, the acoustics of the sewers carried their conversation right to him. Anders resisted the urge to turn and hurl a fireball down the passage, roasting them where they stood, or better, sucking the oxygen from their lungs with the heat. His heart raced faster and he squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to stay in control. It would be easy to let Justice take over, to give into his rage. But he had to control it. He wasn't backed into a corner yet.

"Knight-Captain Cullen's not going to be happy."

"He can sit on it. I just had my armor polished yesterday."

Cullen? Anders knew a Cullen from the Ferelden Circle. He'd been a right pain in the ass, too. Surely it couldn't be the same one. The odds would be too great. He put a hand against the wall for balance, instantly regretting it, gagging as his fingers became coated in fecal matter. A fly buzzed near his ear, loud and irritating. The voices faded, and he hesitated. He could continue down the sewage drain until he found another way up or until it emptied into the sea. Or he could turn around and head back the way he came, hoping the Templars were gone, having found the clinic to be unoccupied. He waited in the dark, trying not to breathe too deeply, straining his ears to try to hear any sounds. Flies and the dripping of water echoed, but no more voices.

A minute passed, then another. Eventually his heart stopped pounding and he took a wary step back the way he'd come. With each step he stopped and listened, imagining a whole company of Templars at the bottom of the ladder waiting for him silently, luring him back into a trap. But he saw nothing, the faint light coming through the holes in the sewer grate that they'd closed back up. Hesitating, he put a wary hand on the rung of the ladder. Nothing but silence. Slowly he climbed, waiting again at the top. His heart started to pound once more. What if he pushed the grate back to be greeted with a dozen sword tips at his throat? Mouth dry, he tried to swallow and gagged again, retching in the chokedamp. He would have to come up for air or chance passing out.

Holding his breath, he slid the grate open and waited. Nothing. He peeked his head out of the hole. The clinic looked as if it had been hit by a hurricane. Tables were upturned, some left in broken splinters. Two oil lamps were knocked over and smashed, glass littering the dirt floor. A barrel in the corner that contained clean linens lay on its side, its contents spilled and ripped. Crates were smashed, no use now but firewood.

He pulled himself up and out and approached his door. Kicked in, lock broken. He would need to repair it later somehow. Glancing out, he saw nothing. The immediate vicinity was devoid of people, Templars and refugees alike. Anders knew that the former would've sent the latter running. Though the Templars had no jurisdiction in Darktown – and truth be told, neither did the city guard – no one wanted to get on Knight-Commander Meredith's bad side. He sighed and pulled a cloth from the barrel, wiping his hands as clean as he could before starting to set things right. He checked the hidden crevasse in the wall, relieved when he found his books untouched. The cache of ingredients he kept behind a large broken beam seemed unmolested as well. So they weren't looking for evidence of sedition, just apostates. Just himself.

Justice surged to the forefront of his mind and he quickly took his staff in hand, turning and unleashing a wave of electricity at a new, sudden intrusion.

"Andraste's ass, Blondie!"

Anders calmed down immediately. The voice was Varric's, but Anders thankfully hadn't hit him. Hawke stood in front of Varric, having blocked the spell. A crackle of energy dissipated into the green stone in his staff.

"I – oh Maker, I'm sorry!" Anders exclaimed, holstering his staff and rushing forward to make sure he hadn't done any damage.

"It's fine, I'm fine," Varric assured him, batting away his hands. "Jumpy thing, aren't you? And you stink," he added.

Anders accepted the insult as repayment for nearly killing him.

Hawke looked around, frowning. "What happened?"

Anders sighed, gesturing around the room which was still in disarray. "Templars. They only just left, I think. I couldn't be sure how many. I ran as soon as I heard their good morning greeting," he said, nodding toward the door.

"You weren't hurt?"

Anders had to control the sudden warmth of gratitude he felt surging forth as he heard the note of worry in Hawke's voice. "Nothing but my pride. It's not exactly glamorous having to hide out in a sewer while your home is ransacked."

Hawke continued to frown, pursing his lips tightly. "Remind me to tell you about the time Bethany and I had to hide in a pig sty. We can help you clean later if you want."

Anders shook his head. "Nothing important was ruined. Except the door, I suppose."

Varric looked it over, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Standard locks. Really ought to think about changing them. I'll get someone down here to take a look for you."

"You really don't need-"

"Yes," Hawke said, cutting him off. "He does. And he will. And the next time Templars come knocking, they'll think twice about entering uninvited."

"Could do with some standard traps," Varric mused. "Nothing fancy. Just enough to deter your average mage-hunter."

Anders looked away, trying to stem the well of gratitude he felt. It would be ridiculous and embarrassing to burst into tears here and now. The sudden jolt into consciousness and resultant jarring of emotion he felt over the span of less than half an hour left him exhausted and raw.

"We'll deal with it later," Hawke said, and Anders nodded. Hawke continued. "I just spoke with Thrask."

Great. More Templars. Anders felt woozy, a prickle of anger rising up inside him. Regardless of their earlier dealings with Thrask and the fact that he seemed sympathetic, Anders felt nothing but disgust at the name now.

"Apparently there was a fire that burned down the Circle in Starkhaven," Hawke continued.

Anders looked at him, eyebrows raised. "Oh?" This was good news. If the mages were getting restless elsewhere in the Free Marches, then perhaps Kirkwall would follow suit.

"Several phylacteries were broken in the process and they were relocating the mages here when they escaped." Hawke gestured while he spoke, as if trying to appeal to Anders for help.

Anders narrowed his eyes, frowning. "And? Good for them. I hope they run as fast as they can and take a few Templars out on the way." He could feel the bittersweet taste of the words on his tongue. Mages on the run out of necessity. While he was glad for their freedom, the fact that they needed to run meant they could never be truly free.

"Thrask is asking for help. If the Kirkwall Templars find them first…" Hawke trailed off, letting the unspoken conclusion hang in the air.

Anders gritted his teeth. "So Thrask wants you to do his dirty work for him and you're agreeing? I thought you wanted to help mages, not imprison them again. I won't help you hunt apostates, Hawke." Though it pained him to say it, Anders at least felt relief that the words came so easily. A handsome face wouldn't sway him from his convictions.

"We're not going to put them back into the Circle," Hawke explained patiently. "Their phylacteries are broken. They're free. But we need to find them before Ser Karras does or-"

"Karras?" Anders interrupted. It was a name he was familiar with. A man Karl wrote to him about. He was only second or third in ruthlessness after Meredith herself. Ambitious Templars, he reminded himself, were infinitely more dangerous than lazy ones.

"You know him?" Hawke asked.

"Uh, can we discuss this on the way?" Varric broke in, pointing a thumb backward over his shoulder. "Otherwise we're not going to have anything to argue about."

"Lead the way," Anders said, making up his mind at once.

Hawke seemed relieved, offering a tight-lipped smile, and followed Varric out. Anders trailed them, gripping his staff as they climbed out of the Undercity into Lowtown.

"I don't know him personally," Anders said, hurrying to keep up with Hawke's long strides. "I've heard the name. When Karl-" and saying his name out loud hurt more than Anders cared to think "-wrote to me about the goings on in the Circle, he named Karras as one of the worst. If we can get there before he does, we might have a shot at actually helping them."

"Garrett!"

Hawke did not slow in his steps, but Varric glanced back as did Anders. Carver was running after them. He dodged around a small crowd of people and hurried up the stairs.

"Garrett, wait, where are you going?"

"Go home, Carver," Hawke said, pulling his hood up.

Carver gripped his arm, and Anders had to dodge as Hawke turned quickly, throwing a punch which Carver ducked.

"Bloody bastard," Carver spat. "I'm trying to help!" He stepped up close, almost chest to chest with his brother.

"Mother wants you home," Hawke said, shoving him back with a hand. He spun on his heel, Anders and Varric following.

Carver continued to dog them, jogging now to keep up. Anders caught Varric's eye, and the dwarf shook his head, indicating that it was best to stay out of the fight. Anders was glad for that. They exited the city, making toward the coast.

"Well she doesn't get to tell me what to do and neither do you. You're tracking apostates; I heard some of the Templars talking. Something about the Circle in Starkhaven," Carver continued in earnest. "I'm coming with you."

"Why?" said Anders, unable to help himself. "So you can collect the bounty Karras undoubtedly put on their heads?"

Carver scoffed. "Well it's not like we couldn't use the money-"

Varric reached out quickly, pulling Anders out of the path of the force wave from Hawke's staff. Carver wasn't so lucky, thrown back several feet, landing hard on his back in the sand. Hawke stalked up to him, pressing the end of his staff to his throat.

"You come with us, you follow my orders. Or I will encase you in rock and leave you to rot, Maker help me. We're helping the mages escape. And if your misplaced sense of judgment doesn't allow that, you can turn around and run back to the Gallows to squeal like the rat you are. Do you understand? "

There was a moment in which Anders thought Carver would retaliate. Hawke's words were harsh, and had they been directed at himself, he wouldn't have hesitated to strike back. Then again, he never would have come close to proposing what Carver had, even jokingly. Hawke's anger radiated from him, fingertips of his empty hand sparking with white hot energy. Carver's eyes slid from the staff at his throat to the lightning forming in Hawke's hand, and nodded.

"I'm with you, Brother," he said, tone even, but Anders noticed how his own hand shook slightly as he gripped Hawke's staff to push it away.

Hawke removed his staff and grabbed Carver by the front of his tunic, yanking him to his feet. Carver brushed himself off and picked up his fallen sword, and they were moving up the coast again. No words passed between them for the short hike, and in the distance Anders finally saw Thrask, pacing nervously at the mouth of a cave. Thrask stopped when he saw Hawke, eyes flicking from him to Varric and Carver, frowning when he saw Anders.

"What's the situation?" Hawke asked.

Thrask straightened a bit. "My men have gone up the coast to search for others, but I think most of them went in here. I'd go myself but they might attack on sight. If you could convince them to come peacefully before Ser Karras and his men get here…"

Hawke shook his head. "No. If I help, we're getting them out of here. We're not returning them to the Circle."

"It's too dangerous-" Thrask started.

"Dangerous for who?" Anders cut in. "Dangerous for them? Or your reputation? Or were you thinking about sending another group of innocent mages to your friend Samson so he could sell them to slavers for a hit of lyrium?"

"Slavers?" Thrask asked, obviously confused.

"Anders-" Hawke began.

But Anders had already reached into his robes, pulling out the letter he'd found days ago on the girl's body. He thrust it at Thrask, who took it, eyes widening.

"Olivia," he breathed. "Where did you…"

"You knew her?" Anders said, feeling his anger rising. "So you sent her right to Samson, right to the slavers."

"I think we should get going if we're going to go," Varric said suddenly, watching the horizon.

Anders followed his gaze; Templars coming their way. Hawke pointed at Thrask almost accusingly.

"Stall them. We'll do the talking when we get out."

They followed Hawke into the cave, this one similar to the one they found Feynriel in, though lanterns lined the walls, lighting their path. They'd turned a corner in the tunnel, Anders running directly into Hawke's outstretched arm.

"Corpses," he said, holding the others back.

"What?" Carver asked, unable to see from behind Anders.

Dead bodies, several of them, lumbering through the tunnel, heading right for them. Dark magic saturated the air. Did the apostates do this? Backed into a corner, forced to use necromancy to save themselves?

"They're raising the bloody dead!" Anders exclaimed, staff in hand.

It was eerily similar to what they'd seen on Sundermount, and Anders had to wonder if there was ever an end to the horrors. The tunnel was too narrow for him to get a clean shot without hitting the others, so he stood back as Hawke unleashed a wave of flame at the bodies. The stench of rotting, charred flesh filled his nostrils and he raised an arm to cover his face, eyes stinging. Hawke flattened himself against the cavern wall, and Varric took aim with his crossbow.

"Bianca was feeling a little lonely!" he shouted, as the bow rapid fired, catching the half-burned corpses in the face and chest.

They fell to the ground with sickening thuds, and Hawke coughed, waving a hand through the smoke. He forged forward though, turning another corner. Dirt turned to wooden planks, further evidence of the cave's former occupation as a mine. The tunnel widened so they could walk shoulder to shoulder and suddenly a boy burst from around another corner, tripping over his robe. Anders was quick to realize why and flicked his hand, palm out. A surge of electricity crackled and caught a shambling corpse in the chest. Hawke swung hard with his staff and took the creature's head off, and it collapsed to the ground.

Anders knelt at once, gripping the boy's shoulders. He startled, pulling away.

"Don't! Don't kill me, please! I don't want to die! I don't want to!"

"We're not going to kill you!" Anders said quickly. He recognized the terrified look. How many times had he worn that expression himself, cornered by those who'd see him imprisoned or dead or worse? "What's going on?"

"They're… they're using blood magic," the boy said, shaking.

Hawke moved to one knee as well, eye-level with the apprentice. "Who is?"

"Decimus. He started the fire. He said if our phylacteries were broken, they couldn't find us. He said that we could escape. But then he slit his wrists. He killed Ser Merwin with blood magic! I didn't want to stay in the Circle, but I didn't want to do that!"

Anders looked at Hawke. "We can't give him to Karras. He'll torture the boy."

"He's a blood mage," Carver spat.

Anders anger surged, eyes glowing blue, turning that fierce glare upon Carver.

"Anders!" Hawke snapped, and Anders shook his head, coming back to himself. Hawke looked to the boy. "There's a Templar outside, his name is Thrask. If you surrender to him, he'll show you mercy. Do not go with Karras, you understand?"

The boy nodded, and Hawke helped him to his feet, Anders rising as well. He watched as the boy ran off, frowning at Hawke, whose expression was hard to read.

"We'll deal with him later. If the mages are using blood magic, it's best he doesn't associate with them, Circle or no."

"The Templars are shoving them into a corner," Anders insisted. "And we're helping! We should've knocked Thrask out and let them be done with it."

Hawke shook his head. "Some blood mages are redeemable. If Decimus can be reasoned with, if he hasn't lost himself to demons, we might be able to help."

They hurried across a wooden bridge over a yawning chasm. At the end, the cave opened to a wide clearing. It was empty save for one man who stood in the middle of a glowing circle. He wore grey robes with a Circle of Starkhaven crest sewn into them. His long blond hair and beard were shaggy, his eyes wide and wild. Three freshly murdered mages lay dead at his feet, their blood seeping into the ground.

"Not a step further! You Templars will never take us!" 

"Wait!" Anders cried as Decimus pulled out a knife and slit his palm open.

The ground shook and Anders spun around to see half a dozen shades rising up. Behind him, a deep, grotesque laughter.

"Kill them!" Decimus ordered. "Kill them all!"

Anders brought staff to ground just in time. The glyph that burst into light repelled the initial attack, the shades throwing themselves at the four of them over and over. He ducked an attack as the oozing black shadow lunged for him, heaving himself forward into a somersault, away from the fight. The smell of fire filled the air, and he heard Carver scream in pain.

"No!"

This from Hawke, who turned in time to see his brother fall. He pointed his staff at the demon, three consecutive balls of energy exploding from the end, causing the demon to scream in pain before erupting into shadows. Hawke didn't hesitate, didn't stop to look at Carver, who lay writhing on the ground, sword several feet away. He pivoted and ducked another demon as the onslaught continued.

Anders quickly raced to Carver, kneeling down, pressing hands to chest. Four broken ribs, a collapsed lung. Carver coughed, blood spurting from his lips as he convulsed. Anders concentrated his magic, barely aware of the arrows that flew just over his head, trying to ignore the screams of another shade behind him. Carver cried out as the bones knitted, muscles augmenting quickly and painfully. Anders had no time to be gentle, helping him to a sitting position. Carver spat out a mouthful of blood and took several deep breaths. He nodded to Anders before taking up his sword and rejoining the fray.

Anders looked up to see Hawke, staff discarded at his feet, hands twisting in the air. A black void formed between his palms, and Decimus, now a half-formed abomination, gnarled and grotesque, shrieked in pain as that void was mimicked inside him. Hawke pushed his palms toward one another with difficulty, as if trying to press two of the same ends of a magnet together. With a fierce, guttural cry he ripped them apart, the blackness tearing away in shreds. Decimus howled and exploded into pieces. Anders turned away, covering his head as bits of flesh and blood rained down on his coat.

A few feet away, Varric turned from the scene and bent double, retching into the dirt. Carver stumbled forward and Hawke turned to steady him, hand on his brother's shoulder. They exchanged a few quick words that Anders couldn't hear before Hawke looked toward him. He crossed the short distance and offered a hand. Anders gripped his wrist and allowed himself to be hauled bodily to his feet with no effort on his part.

Then suddenly he was in Hawke's embrace, tight and warm and safe. It felt…

"Thank you," Hawke whispered, before letting him go.

Anders caught sight of his face briefly, the immeasurable gratitude etched into every line before Hawke moved to Varric, slapping him on the back. He made a joke about weak stomachs and Varric responded with a rude hand gesture. Several mages emerged from the rocks, a woman crying out.

"Decimus! No! Why didn't you listen to me, love?" She sobbed, falling to her knees, taking up Decimus's fallen staff. Then suddenly she looked up at Hawke, blue eyes glaring fiercely. "How could you?!"

"Maybe your lover should've tried saying hello instead of attacking us on sight!" Anders shot back. Normally he'd have shown her compassion, having lost a loved one, lost friends. But he wouldn't allow her to blame Hawke for Decimus's death. "He made his choice when he used blood magic. When he killed his fellow mages for power!" He gestured to the bodies sprawled on the ground.

She sprang to her feet and charged at Anders, staff raised, but Hawke caught her around the middle, shoving her back none too gently. She stumbled and fell back, sobbing as she hit the ground. The other mages looked from one to the other, unwilling to go to her defense. Or perhaps they'd seen what Hawke could do and didn't care to raise his ire.

"Who are you?" she demanded angrily, getting to her feet. "Templar sympathizers?"

Carver snorted. "Hardly. That's bloody gratitude for you."

Hawke glared at him; obviously his concern for his brother had ceased the moment he realized Carver was going to live. Carver shrugged irritably and turned away, rubbing at his still-sore chest.

"We're working with a Templar named Thrask to get you out of here. If you listen for a second, we'll be able to plan a way for you to escape," Hawke said, picking his staff up and holstering it.

"You have to kill him," she said, as if it were that simple.

"Oh great, so we're killing Templars now," Carver said, voice still dripping with sarcasm. He sat heavily on the bottom of a stone staircase.

Anders cast around, looking for his staff, frowning as he caught sight of the headpiece. In the fray he'd dropped it, and it looked like it had cracked into pieces. Behind him, Hawke continued to argue with the woman. Anders toed the ground, sighing. A new staff wouldn't come cheap, and likely wouldn’t be as powerful as this one. Crafted from red steel, enchanted specifically to increase his healing abilities, it would be impossible to replace. With a sigh, he kicked a piece irritably, then moved to Carver who looked up.

"Here, let me look," Anders said, dropping to his knees.

Carver took his hands away from his chest and allowed Anders to undo the leather armor. As his hands passed over the firm muscles in Carver's chest, Anders felt a vicious bitterness toward him that he quickly pushed away. Losing his staff hadn't been Carver's fault. The fact that it was Carver's chest and not Hawke's he was currently touching wasn't Carver's fault either. As a healer, he was glad the boy wasn't dead, and a more reasonable voice spoke up.

_At least Hawke didn't get hurt._

"There. That should do it. Don't exert yourself for a day or two." He stood, shaking his hands slightly, still feeling the tingling magic in his fingertips.

Carver grunted a thanks, doing up his shirt and armor again. Anders looked back toward Hawke, who seemed to be finished arguing. Varric was leaning against a wall, arms crossed, watching the exchange. He caught Anders' eye and gestured him over with a head nod. Anders went.

"I think we can swing this," he said, sounding confident. "That Karras sounds like a piece of work."

"And he's not even the worst," Anders agreed. "What's the plan?"

Hawke walked up to them, laying a hand on Anders' shoulder. Anders had to remind himself that it was entirely friendly, and couldn't decide if he was more impressed by Hawke's magical strength or more intimidated by it. Carver joined them a moment later, and Hawke still hadn't removed his hand. Anders inhaled, remembering that scent of fire and smoke and magic. He imagined that next to Hawke, he must've stunk like a sewer. And rotting flesh, he reasoned, brushing himself off self-consciously.

"Just follow my lead," Varric said. He looked back to the others. "You all stay here. Give us about fifteen minutes, then come up. Don't worry; no one's going to any Circle."

Carver looked like he wanted to say something, but held his tongue. Hawke gently squeezed Anders' shoulder, causing his stomach to flutter slightly before they followed Varric out of the cave. When they emerged, they saw Thrask standing between the boy they'd saved and a man Anders immediately identified as Karras. Several Templars stood behind him. Anders hung back a bit behind Carver.

"Do you mean to tell me that this boy is the only one left of the apostates? How stupid do you think I am, Thrask?" Karras spat.

Varric cleared his throat. Karras glared down at him.

"Allow me to introduce Senior Enchanter Hawke from the Circle in Ferelden. He was recently dispatched to Kirkwall to help with the apostate problem."

Hawke's impassivity worked wonders in the situation, Karras's eyes flicking from Varric to him, then back down.

"Unfortunately we were too late. The boy-" Varric gestured.

"Alain," Thrask provided.

"Alain ran away when the others started using blood magic. I'm afraid," Varric said, sighing sadly, "all you'll find inside are a few dozen corpses. You should thank Senior Enchanter Hawke for his vigilance in this trying time."

Karras scowled. "I refuse to believe that every single one of them is dead. We'll search the caves."

"Are you sure that's wise, Lieutenant?" Thrask asked. "I've been out here for hours already. If they were going to escape it would be out the back side that empties into the sea. I'll stay here with the senior enchanter and his entourage and you take your men round the other way."

Anders found himself begrudgingly impressed with Thrask's honor and eagerness to help apostates. Thrask certainly knew Varric had handed Karras a plate of bullshit, and he was helping feed it to him. Karras was frowning still, but he gestured to his men who followed him down the path. Alain let out a breath and looked to Hawke.

"Are the others…?"

"Decimus is dead," Hawke said.

Before he could continue, the woman followed by a few others came out of the cave, looking around. Alain's eyes widened.

"Grace. You're alive."

"No thanks to you," she spat. She looked at Thrask, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Go on then," Hawke said. "Get out of here before Karras comes back."

Grace turned back to him, touching his arm and Anders felt a possessive flare. How dare she, when she was so eager to point the blame on him just a few minutes ago? Hawke didn't seem to react to the touch, and instead simply stepped aside, watching as she and the others went down the opposite path of Karras. Alain stayed firmly by Thrask's side.

"You helped us," Anders said, looking at Thrask.

"Because you helped me," Thrask replied, taking out the letter Anders had shoved at him. "Olivia… was my daughter."

Anders frowned. "Your daughter? And you didn't help her?"

"It's difficult to explain. I wanted to see her safe. I tried to keep her magic quiet. I know what the Circle's become under Meredith. It wasn't this bad before her. When Olivia needed help… I almost wish I'd forced her into the Circle, but how could I do that to my own child?"

Anders closed his eyes.

_"Don't take him away! He's my baby, don't take him, please!"_

He opened his eyes, shoving the memory away brutally. "So you let her go."

"So I let her go," Thrask sighed. "I should've done more to help her."

Anders didn't have it in his heart to agree with him out loud. Thrask had beaten himself up quite soundly over his daughter, and now he had to arrange a funeral.

"I'd appreciate it," he said, looking at the four of them as well as Alain, "if you didn't let word get out that Olivia was… how she died."

"Of course," Hawke agreed.

"Thank you. I can't bear the thought of my daughter's name being dragged through the mud only days after her death."

Had it been anyone else, Anders would have thought the secrecy was more for Thrask's own personal shame at having a mage for a daughter who turned to demons. But something in the way he stood, the tiredness in his eyes, the sadness tugging at the corners of his mouth made Anders shift his opinion about the Templar. It must've been a miracle right from the Maker himself, the change of heart he was feeling. But… perhaps Thrask could be the potential ally he needed on the inside. Thrask and Alain, if the boy wasn't going to fall apart. And right now, Anders thought, he looked like he might.

"You should go," Thrask said finally. "Before Karras comes back. I'll answer any questions. You may want to stay out of sight for a few days. I'll send along anything I hear."

Hawke held his hand out and Thrask gripped it, nodding. The four of them started back along the coast, silent for a while.

"Templars helping mages," Anders said, bemused. "What is this world coming to?" He'd meant it to be an off-color remark, but it came out much more serious than he'd intended.

"A Templar helped my father," Hawke said. "It's how he managed to leave the Circle and run away with mother."

"Thrask at the very least doesn't appear to want to make them all into mindless zombies," Carver said flippantly.

"Junior, how about I buy you a drink?" Varric cut in, shaking his head at the insensitivity. He looked at Anders almost apologetically before taking Carver by the elbow and pulling him away. "Catch you two later. Come by for a game of cards."

Hawke raised a hand in parting before turning back to Anders. "What happened to your staff?" he asked, noting the lack.

Anders shrugged, walking with Hawke to no real destination. "Blasted to pieces by Decimus I suppose. I lost track of it when Carver fell."

Hawke was quiet for a moment. "Thank you again."

"Your brother might be a prick but no one deserves to die like that." He'd said the words before he could stop himself. To his relief, Hawke laughed.

"He is," Hawke agreed. "Always has been." They reached the marketplace, and the smell of freshly baked bread permeated the air. "Hungry?"

Anders' stomach twisted at the thought of food. How long had it been? It must've been nearly midday. Twenty-four hours at least, possibly more. "Starving."

"My treat," Hawke said, and stopped at a booth.

"It's fine. I-"

Hawke looked at him, green eyes intense, locked on his own. Anders licked his lips, unable to say anything, and simply nodded. Maker, he would never get used to that. Hawke purchased a basket of peculiar-looking ball-shaped lumps of dough.

"I've never had those," Anders commented, curious.

"They're a sort of… meat bun," Hawke explained, pulling one steaming from the basket. 

He handed it to Anders, who inhaled before taking a bite. The dough was hot, not quite cooked all the way, and the filling burned the inside of his mouth. It tasted vaguely fishy, but also beefy. He could only identify onion and carrot, both crunchy and somewhat raw. It was glorious. Subsisting on a diet of stale bread, water, and fruit if he could afford it, this was a rare treat. They found a place in the shade where Anders devoured four of them.

"You know, you could always come to the Hanged Man for dinner. Varric knows people in the Merchant Guild and the meals we get on discount aren't bad. It's not fine dining but it keeps the belly full for cheap."

Anders licked his fingers, trying not to be too disgusted by the dirt under his nails. His natural spirit healing ability would keep any sickness at bay, and he didn't want to imagine what he ingested along with the meat buns.

"I don't like taking charity. There are so many other people who need help more than I do."

Hawke grunted. "But you're the healer. What happens when you fall? Or pass out from hunger? What happens when you're too exhausted to save lives? If you couldn't have helped Carver?"

Anders looked down at his hands in his lap, flexing his fingers. A crackle of energy passed through them. Hawke reached over and touched his wrist, causing Anders' stomach to flutter. It was a gentle touch, too gentle for someone like Hawke.

"Where did you learn that spell?" Anders asked. "The one you used on Decimus?"

"My father taught me. I think he called it-"

"Crushing prison," Anders finished. "They teach the theory of it in the Circle. It's a step away from the darker magics, in the arcane field. It's… not something a spirit healer can do."

"Then I suppose we complement each other well, seeing as how I can't do what you do."

Anders looked up to see Hawke actually smiling at him. Had they not been in the middle of a crowded square in the middle of the day, Anders would have been unable to help himself kissing him right there.

"Yes, I… I suppose we do," he said at last.

Hawke stood, wiping his mouth, tossing their garbage in an overflowing can. "Come on. I need to tell Mother that Carver's okay and I want to show you something." He was off down the street without waiting for Anders.

Anders followed, recognizing the path to Hawke's uncle's place. He climbed the stairs after him, hesitating on the threshold. Hawke had already entered, hugging his mother as she got to her feet to embrace him.

"Your brother?" she asked worriedly.

"He's fine. He's with Varric at the Hanged Man."

"Oh Garrett," she said, a note of disapproval in her tone. "You know I don't like that place."

"He's earned himself a drink. I'll tell you about it later. I promise."

Hawke's mother looked past him to Anders, who offered an awkward smile. The last time she'd seen him, he was covered in Karl's blood, still in a daze. They hadn't exactly been properly introduced. 

"This is Anders," Hawke said, reaching out and seizing his wrist, dragging him into the apartment.

A snort from the corner of the room alerted Anders to another person, a man. Hawke's uncle, presumably, who did not look up from the newspaper he was reading.

"He's been helping us. It's because of him that we're going to be able to get your house back," Hawke said.

Anders stared. House? What house? What had Hawke said about him to his mother? It was all terribly awkward and he felt much like a boyfriend being dragged in front of his lover's parents to undergo their scrutiny like this was a bad romance novel.

"Leandra," she introduced herself, grasping Anders' hand. "Thank you. Garrett's said so much about you already."

"All good things, I hope," he replied with a shaky laugh. Was she just being nice? Had Hawke spoken of him? He supposed that he would've done the same, had he had family around to speak to about it. Hawke simply never struck him as someone who would share intimate details about his friends with his family.

"Of course," Leandra said softly. "I'm sure you two want your privacy though, go on."

Hawke snatched a bottle from the side table before heading into the next room, waiting for Anders before shutting the door. It was a bedroom, if one could call it that. A triple bunk bed was pushed in the corner. The mattresses were stained but otherwise seemed clean, the linens smelled of soap. In the corner, a bucket of cooling, dirty water sat as a testament to their freshly laundered state. Suddenly, even in the midst of the hovel with the dirt and rocks on the floor, Anders felt unclean, stinking of the sewer and dirt and blood.

Hawke pulled the cork on the bottle, taking a swig before handing it to Anders. Anders took it, sniffed.

"It's Antivan," Hawke said. "The good stuff. Mother had a birthday recently and Varric and Aveline helped chip in for it. Only she doesn't drink much so Carver and I've been helping her out. Go on."

He turned from Anders and started digging through a crate. Anders took a swig, enjoying the fruity bite as he swallowed. It had been ages since he'd had anything so rich. He took another sip and raised an eyebrow at Hawke's sound of triumph. When he turned, he held a golden staff in hand. A crisscross pattern was etched in for a hand grip and at the top, a relief of Andraste at the stake. From feet away, Anders could feel the thrum of power from it.

"Here," Hawke said, pressing it into his hand, taking the wine bottle back.

Anders examined it, running two fingers from the top down to the grip. It was surprisingly light, and he'd mistaken the metal. Not gold, though gold in color. "Is this… What is this made of?"

"Aurum," Hawke said around a mouthful of wine. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, pointing out the grip. "That was added later, after I almost dropped it. In my defense, I was still learning."

Anders frowned, looking at him. He seemed less like the Hawke he was used to. He was more… open. Friendly. Happy. "It's gorgeous," he said, touching the top of Andraste's head. "Aurum… that's really rare."

"From the volcanoes near the Sea of Ash in the west," Hawke explained. 

He stepped close, and Anders could feel his body heat. He kept his eyes firmly on the staff, unnerved yet excited at the proximity.

"It was my father's, supposed to be mine. But it would do better in the hands of a healer. So I want you to have it."

Anders looked up suddenly, nearly dropping the staff in surprise. "Me?"

"Mmhm."

"Hawke, I can't take this," Anders said, a thousand thoughts racing through his mind. Did Hawke understand what this meant? Giving away a staff that was his father's. It was an heirloom. It was expensive. The staff alone wouldn't be able to buy a house in Hightown, but it could move them into a better apartment, feed them for a few months at least.

"You can. And you will." Hawke's tone indicated that this wasn't up for discussion. He sighed. "I can't… I don’t feel comfortable using it. Don't ask me why. But it doesn't make sense for it to sit in a dusty corner of my uncle's apartment. Had he known how valuable it is, he might have already hocked it to pay off his debts. It would mean a lot if you'd take it. My father worked hard to craft it."

Anders took a step back, spinning it a few times, still enthralled at the weight. He could feel the power in the staff, emanating, enhancing his own natural abilities. The he looked to Hawke. "I'll take it on one condition."

"Anything."

Anders hesitated. What if Hawke said no? What if he laughed? Or worse, what if he realized the growing interest Anders had in him? Would he take the staff back? Kick him out? "You have to promise me that we'll stay friends. At least… for a while."

Hawke scoffed. "Is that it? I was expecting something difficult." He took another swing of wine before handing it to Anders. "To friendship."

Anders took the bottle with a slightly shaking hand. "To us."


	7. Chapter 7

Hightown had a decidedly different feel to it than the rest of Kirkwall. People walked around dressed in their finery, noses in the air. Though the Chantry loomed overhead, one could find more affirmed and initiates begging alms for the poor in Lowtown than up here. It was also much more wide open, less places to hide if you were being chased. The city guard patrolled leisurely while noble men and women complained about the prices on the latest imported fabrics and perfumes from Orlais, everyone oblivious or apathetic to the struggles and injustices that happened in the streets below them.

Anders hated it.

He shifted his pack on his back, gripping Malcolm Hawke's staff tightly in his right hand. Anxious, he looked around the square. A few dozen people milled around, crates and sacks piled up. He recognized the unofficial uniform of the Coterie on a few, and counted at least four dwarves. This was the place. Above him, a clock chimed noon. This was the time. But where-

He caught sight of Hawke coming around another corner, in the middle of a heated argument with Carver. Beside them, Varric was massaging his forehead, looking irritated. Anders could have easily guessed what the fight was about even if they weren't shouting.

"I said no. Mother said no. The answer is no."

Anders shivered. Though he hadn't seen too much of Hawke over the last few days, his friend had visited briefly to check up on him. The door to his clinic had been repaired and Varric even sent a few associates to help him restock his stores. The clinic was closed up tightly now, traps on the reinforced locks. Anders spoke with Lirene to let her know that he'd be out of town for a while, though he hadn't mentioned where he was going. He sent word out for the woman she suggested he speak to about the Friends of Mages, but received no response. Perhaps when they got back he would ask Varric, who knew everyone in Kirkwall worth knowing.

"But I can fight! You need a blade with you," Carver insisted.

"And if that were true," Hawke said evenly, "I would take Fenris before I'd take you."

"The elf?" Carver scoffed. "Why? So you could listen to him brood and whine about his lot in life the entire way?"

"Wouldn't be much of a change if we brought you instead, Junior," Varric said, now squeezing his temples, eyes shut.

Anders wondered if they'd been listening to this all morning.

"I'm coming," Carver declared.

"No," Hawke said, "you're not. Now stop carrying on like a child. You have to stay here and keep mother safe."

"Safe from what?" Carver said, almost whining now. "From the rats? From Gamlen's insults?"

"Varric, what in the hell is going on?" This from another dwarf, who glanced over from a long checklist he'd been marking.

"Just a little family dispute, Bartrand. We'll get it sorted," Varric said, raising his palms placatively.

Bartrand snorted. "You'd better. We're leaving within the hour. Better be ready to go or we're going without you."

"I hope you weren't leaving without me," came another voice, this one from behind Anders.

He turned to see a buxom Rivaini woman walk past him toward the group. The woman from the Hanged Man. He couldn't help but notice her curvaceous, lithe body and the way her hips swayed. And he wasn't the only one; heads had turned one after the other. The Coterie thugs nudged each other, nodding, whispering behind their hands. She walked up to Hawke and stopped in front of him, slim fingers resting on her cocked hip. Anders frowned a little as Hawke smiled at her.

"Oh you're taking Isabela but not me," Carver said, gesturing at her. "She'll get eaten alive down there!"

" _I'm_ useful," Isabela said.

Isabela. The name. The face. Anders suddenly remembered two gorgeous women in bed with him, a hot, sweaty night in a seedy brothel, too much alcohol and a snap of electricity. So that's where he'd seen her before. Though it had been several years, she still looked in good a shape as any, and he wondered how she'd come into contact with Hawke. Then, Hawke did have a tendency to pick up strays along the way, Anders supposed.

"I suppose we could always duel for a spot by your brother's side," she said, reaching out and running a fingertip along Carver's arm.

Carver scowled and pulled back. "I'm not stupid, you know."

"Could've fooled me," she laughed.

Hawke shook his head, looking around the square, eyes stopping on Anders. Anders offered a feeble smile and raised a hand. Hawke gestured him over, and he went. Carver caught sight of him, jaw dropping.

"What? He's going too?" he said exasperatedly.

"Surprise," Anders said, unable to stop himself from pouring salt in the wound.

Isabela turned, looking him up and down. She crossed her arms under her chest, raising a finger to tap her lips, thinking. "I know you from somewhere."

"The Pearl," he supplied easily.

"Oh? Oh! Were you the runaway mage who could do that electricity thing? I remember that. That was nice." She almost purred the last, eyes raking down to stop somewhere around his crotch.

Anders tried not to blush at her unabashed enthusiasm. Not that his own sexual history was meant to be kept a secret of course. He didn't want Hawke to think he was unavailable… should the situation ever arise where Hawke might be interested in more than just being friends with him.

"Already acquainted?" Hawke asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Intimately," Isabela laughed.

Anders avoided Hawke's gaze, looking at the ground. 

Carver scowled again. "If you're done flirting," he snapped. "Garrett, you need me on this."

"We can't take everyone," Hawke said. "I need Anders for his healing and Isabela for her speed."

"I can be quick!" Carver insisted.

"Not quick enough," Hawke retorted. "Not without my spells to aid you. And I'll need my mana for frontal assaults if we come across any darkspawn. Besides, if I die down there-"

Carver scoffed.

"If I die down there," Hawke continued, ignoring him, "you have to carry on the family name. Do you understand what that means?"

Carver muttered.

"I'm not continuing this. We're done," Hawke said, his tone final.

Carver started to speak, but Hawke turned that icy glare on him. Carver's face flushed an angry red. He glowered at his brother, then Isabela, who grinned unhelpfully before turning to Anders. Anders looked up, avoiding his eyes.

"Fine," Carver said through gritted teeth.

He turned and stalked away.

"Family drama over with?" Bartrand called. "You joining us any time soon or should we wait a little longer?"

Hawke shifted his own pack irritably before joining the rest of the group. Anders barely listened to Bartrand, looking around again. How many of these men had actually been in the Deep Roads? How many had seen what he'd seen? The dwarves, possibly. But how did Orzammar compare to an abandoned thaig, torn asunder by hordes of darkspawn? He doubted that any of them even had an inkling of what could be found deep under the earth. He'd promised himself he'd never return. He would never go back.

Yet here he was.

He looked at Hawke, who must've felt eyes on him. Hawke looked over, head tilting slightly. Anders frowned. Did he really want to do this? Hawke had the maps. He had the muscle. He had Varric. Though Anders hadn't seen Isabela fight in a long time, the years had been exceptionally kind to her. She was a capable fighter. But to let Hawke go down to the Deep Roads without him… What if something happened? What if Hawke was injured and Anders could have helped keep him alive? There were some things a poultice just couldn't fix. He gripped his staff, palms sweating. Maybe, he reasoned, possibly it wouldn't be so bad this time. The Blight was over and the Deep Roads might be empty.

And pigs would fly tomorrow.

Bartrand was off, leading the way out of Hightown, and Hawke approached Anders, breaking him from his revelry.

"You all right?" Hawke asked, clapping him on the shoulder, guiding him with the group. "You look green."

Anders offered a shaky laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. "It's… unnerving to be going back."

"I meant what I said," Hawke said gently. "I would go down without you, but I prefer having you at my side. You're indispensable next to me. We're lucky to have you."

Damn him, Anders thought, letting out a nervous breath. Between the warm hand on his arm and the touching words, there was no way he could back out now. "Getting out of Kirkwall for a while is a good thing," he reasoned. "For both of us, I'd imagine. Have you heard from Thrask lately?"

"He drinks with Varric now and again," Hawke said, letting his hand slip from Anders' shoulder. "Keeps us updated on anything going on. Nothing to worry about yet. He knows we'll be gone for a few weeks. Even wished me luck," Hawke added, pleased.

Anders shook his head. "I never thought I'd meet someone like him. Even though the Templars in the Ferelden Circle were more… lenient than they are here, not a single one of them would've been happy to help a mage escape."

"Thrask's suffered personally. He lost his daughter. It's hard to lose a family member to the injustices of the Templars," Hawke said, keeping his tone even. "I can only imagine how hard it is when you're part of that injustice. He's doing a good thing, risking his position and potentially his life."

"What are you boys talking about?" Isabela asked, skipping forward, wrapping her arms around both of them. "Guy talk? Is it about me? Can I join in?"

"We're discussing the plight of the Circle mage," Anders supplied. "Opinion?" The question was half-serious, slightly annoyed at her interruption.

Isabela tutted and dropped her arms, walking between them. "None whatsoever."

"Surely you have to have something to say," Anders prodded.

She withdrew a small knife, picking idly at her nails as they walked. Anders admired her frivolity and her casual grace. "Nope. No opinion at all."

"Do you care about anything beyond money and sex?" Anders prompted. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting. Perhaps he thought that their brief meeting in the past had given him an insight to her, that he'd only scratched the surface and now he would be able to get to know her better. He hoped she was more than just skin deep. Even Fenris – as much as Anders hated to admit it – held stronger convictions. They were the wrong convictions, of course, but at least he was capable of it.

"And ships," she added. "I like money and sex and ships. And strong men with great big muscles," she continued, reaching up with both hands, gripping onto Hawke's bicep.

Anders felt a flare of jealousy. Hawke's smirk did nothing to extinguish it either. "I see."

"Oh don't be jealous," Isabela said, taking up Anders' arm instead, squeezing firmly through his coat. "I like you, too. In fact, I remember being rather fond of your tongue. And your fingers. The way you-"

"Stop it," he snapped, and he was sure he was blushing. He glanced at Hawke, who was looking at him with amusement, lips curling slightly into a smile.

Isabela pouted. "You've lost your fun over the years. Was it the Grey Wardens? Did they suck the fun out of you?"

"Something like that," Anders said. "Having nightmares about darkspawn and archdemons will do that to a man."

"Well," she said, "then am I ever glad I met you before all that."

"Leave him alone, Isabela," Hawke said, without any rancor in his tone.

"Be careful," she said, turning to walk backward now, wagging a finger at Hawke. "You spend too much time with him and you'll end up an old grump as well. And that would be a shame." She skipped once and turned around, moving through the crowd to bother the others.

"Sorry," Anders said, though he wasn't quite sure why he was apologizing.

Hawke waved a hand. "She's abrasive but she means well. And she's good in a fight."

"Fought alongside her often?" Anders asked in what he hoped was an airy tone. He imagined Hawke and Isabela back-to-back against street gangs.

"A few times. She helped me get the coin together to fund this. I owe her that. And she wanted to come."

"So that's why you chose her and not Fenris."

Hawke shrugged. "Not really. I thought you and Isabela would get along. Having you and Fenris together in the Deep Roads is a volatile combination. And I'm not sure Varric could handle the headache."

Anders frowned. "My apologies if I'm not fond of someone who'd rather see people like us in chains."

Hawke sighed. "No, I didn't mean it like that," he said, his tone apologetic. "Fenris is an ass."

"What?" The statement confused Anders. From what he could tell, Hawke was fond of the elf. After all, they'd had several quiet conversations in his presence. He could only imagine they continued in private.

"He's an ex-slave from Tevinter."

Anders licked his lips, gesturing a bit. "So he should be on the mages' side then. Since we're practically one in the same."

"It's a different type of oppression," Hawke said carefully. "He doesn't trust mages. His former master was a magister. They don't hesitate to use blood magic in the Imperium. From how he tells it, abominations are the norm rather than the exception. Demons run rampant. Attacks on the borders of Nevarra are regular. The Circle runs things there."

"But the mages are free."

Hawke shook his head. "It's sacrificing one prison for another. They climb their social ladders through little more than murder and dark rituals for power. And it's all run on the backs of slaves like Fenris."

"But he's still an ass," Anders prompted.

Hawke chuckled. "Yes. But he'll come around. I know it."

"How?"

"I have a sense about people."

Anders shivered a bit. "And me?"

Hawke cast a sidelong glance at him. "What about you?"

"What do you sense about me?"

There was a long silence. They walked behind the rest of the expedition, hot sun beating down on them as they crossed the rocky plains, the rolling hills of the Vimmark Mountains in the distance. Anders wondered if he'd asked the wrong question, or if Hawke simply didn't have an answer.

"You're more complicated than I anticipated you ever to be," Hawke said finally.

"I… don't know what to do with that," Anders admitted. "You sound like Flemeth."

"Take it as you like it."

Anders sighed. "Not even going to give me a hint?"

Another quiet pause. "You make me feel comfortable."

The admission took him aback. He looked at Hawke, but his eyes remained firmly ahead as they continued their hike. Anders felt the familiar fluttering in his stomach, the nervous anticipation. He reached out, fingers brushing Hawke's wrist. He didn't pull away.

"So!" Varric said, dropping back between them.

Anders dropped his hand quickly. _Don't set him on fire. He's your friend. You like Varric._

"What are you going to do with your riches?" he asked, nudging Hawke.

"I'm buying the Amell estate in Hightown for Mother," Hawke stated simply.

If he'd been unnerved or excited by Anders' touch, his tone certainly didn't betray that. Anders both hated and envied that control. He wished he could be that way instead of wearing his emotions openly on his sleeve.

"Boring," Varric said, drawing the syllables out. "You could have anything! You could even go back to Ferelden if you wanted. With enough coin to set you up for life."

"Mother's in no fit state to travel again. Kirkwall is her home now."

"Look, Hawke, I'm not one to say to no to looking after family first, but sometimes you need to unlatch yourself from the teat. It's not healthy after the first year, you know." He laughed, jabbing Hawke in the side again.

"Remind me again why I stay by your side," Hawke snapped, though his voice didn't have the edge of irritation it usually did as with Carver.

"Because I'm lovable. And trustworthy. And I carry a gorgeous crossbow. Isn't that right, Bianca?" he asked, reaching back to pat the weapon in question. "Not to mention, one day I'll sell your story and make millions and you want to be around to make sure I get the details right. Lest I embellish on them."

"You already have," Hawke sighed.

"True," Varric acceded. "But you have to admit I made them better."

"Am I in those stories?" Anders asked, a morbid curiosity taking him over.

"Maybe," Varric said, drawing out the word. "After all, what good is a story about a leading man without several important supporting characters?"

"Are you in there as well then?" Anders pressed.

"Ehn," Varric shrugged. "Here and there. No one wants to hear my story though. Not when I surround myself with people far more fascinating. I found its best to stay out of the spotlight and let the real actors work the stage."

"You should put it to song," Anders suggested.

"I have been known to receive compliments on my rich, dulcet tones," Varric said, rubbing his chin. "I guess if this expedition doesn't work out, I could be a traveling minstrel."

The thought made Anders smile. He pictured Varric dressed as a bard, Orlesian-style, mask and all, singing and playing the lute for coin. "I would definitely pay to see that."

"Well you might," said Varric. "It all depends if this is a bust or not. But I'm betting we'll find something down there. Bartrand's got some pretty good sources. With your maps and Hawke's muscle, we'll stumble across something worthwhile."

"I hope so," Hawke said. "I didn't pay all that gold to have this turn out to be nothing."

"What the worst that could happen?" Varric said, shrugging.

"We could be eaten by darkspawn," Anders provided.

"We could get lost and die of starvation," Hawke suggested.

"Killed by massive spiders."

"Get stuck behind a cave in."

"Run into a group of blood mages and fall to their sacrificial ways."

"All right!" Varric snapped.

Anders exchanged a look with Hawke, feeling a thrill of excitement when the other man winked at him. Varric grumbled.

"You two are the moodiest, most depressing bastards I've ever met. I'm going back to talk to Isabela."

"You're just upset because she appreciates your chest hair more than we do," Hawke quipped.

"One day you'll understand how glorious it is," Varric said with a laugh before rejoining the main group.

"What do you really think we'll find?" Anders asked, serious once again.

"Hopefully what Bartrand's been promising," Hawke said. "An abandoned thaig full of forgotten riches. Armor, blades, artifacts, coin."

"Grey Wardens can sense darkspawn," Anders offered. He had taken an oath. He'd keep the details of the Joining a secret, but it was only fair to let Hawke know the other advantage they would have in bringing him. "It's part of us. In return though, they can sense us. I'll be able to tell whether the direction we're heading in is occupied or not. At least by them. Anything else and I can't help you there."

Hawke thought about this a moment. "It's a good advantage to have, considering. I think you and I are the only ones who've fought darkspawn before."

Anders could have kicked himself. How could he have forgotten that Hawke had fled from Lothering? Of course he would've encountered darkspawn in his past. "What was it like?"

"What? Fighting darkspawn? Like any other enemy. They just bleed a different color. You hit them hard enough and they fall down."

Anders wondered if that was how Hawke really felt, or if it was simple bravado. Sometimes it was hard to tell if the man was putting on airs. He could go from intense to aloof in seconds. It gave Anders emotional whiplash. "So no real opinion then?"

Hawke heaved a sigh, though he sounded tired, not exasperated. "They're… I'd hoped never to see them again. But I doubt we'll encounter even a fraction of what I saw in Lothering. And we didn't even happen across the full horde."

"I really can't imagine what that was like," Anders said quietly. "I never had a home to lose."

Hawke shrugged, and said nothing. Anders found he wasn't sure what else to say, and they fell into a comfortable silence.

They trekked for a few hours through the mountains, Anders listening to the conversation of the others. Everything from postulating what they might find to what fights they'd gotten in. He shied away from the Coterie thugs, tall and mean-looking. Isabela had smacked their hands away more than once until Hawke moved to walk next to her. She made a joke about her 'big strong protector' and Anders had to keep his jealousy in check. A dwarf hurried past him, banging into his side as he chased a butterfly.

"My apologies, serah, for my boy. Sandal!" the harried-looking dwarf called. "Sandal, come back and apologize."

Anders raised an eyebrow. "It's okay."

But Sandal came back, having given up the pursuit of the butterfly as quickly as he'd started. "Sorry," he said to Anders, grinning.

"He loses track of the objective sometimes, but he's a good lad. Bodahn Feddic," the dwarf offered.

Anders shook his hand. There hadn't been any dwarves in the Circle of course, and he'd only met a handful on his travels. Varric was the first he met that didn't act in a stereotypical fashion, and these two didn’t seem likely to either. He remembered Oghren, the belching, dirty warrior he had the misfortune of sharing a room with once. Once. Until he'd begged the seneschal at Vigil's Keep for a reassignment and ended up with Nathaniel instead. Best move the seneschal had ever made, Anders thought. Bodahn and Sandal, however, seemed like perfectly normal – well, almost normal in Sandal's case – people.

"He must be," Anders said. "Bartrand doesn't seem the type to bring along just anyone."

Bodahn's chest puffed up importantly and Anders was reminded of a peacock. It was pride over pretention though, and Anders thought he might like to get to know Bodahn a bit better.

"My boy's work with runes and enchanting is second to none."

"Enchantment!" Sandal agreed enthusiastically.

Anders let out a laugh. Sandal clapped his hands. Bodahn cast a warm look at his son, and Anders looked down, smile fading. He half-listened as Bodahn boasted about Sandal's work, talking about their time spent in the Hero of Ferelden's camp. Whether it was true or just embellishments, Anders didn't know, and found that he didn't mind. It was a nice distraction for the dark memories that started to creep up into the back of his mind. A burning barn, an angry blond man towering over him, shouting angrily. Bodahn spoke with nothing but pride for Sandal. But Anders wasn't jealous, simply relieved for Sandal's sake. A lesser man wouldn't have been half as encouraging as Bodahn.

"So if you ever need anything," Bodahn finished. "Don't hesitate to ask."

"I promise, Bodahn, thank you."

"Sandal! Leave the squirrel alone. Excuse me," Bodahn said and hurried off.

They didn't stop until nightfall, setting up camp in the forest.

"We're about half a day from the nearest entrance," Bartrand said. "We leave early so make sure you get some sleep. Tomorrow we'll be going down and there's no turning back from there."

Anders watched two men build up a fire, sparking their knives against flint when Hawke approached. He opened his palm, a fireball spilling lazily from his fingertips. The kindling and wood took flame. The men looked from each other to Hawke, who was already walking away toward Anders. He tossed him a ration pack and sat down, patting the ground next to him. Anders sank, crossing his legs as he set his bag and staff aside.

"How is it by the way?" Hawke said, nodding at his father's staff.

Anders touched the grip reverently. "It's powerful."

"For healing?" Hawke asked, taking a bite from the ration bar.

Anders unwrapped his own, making a face as the smell hit him. Pure protein, tasted like cardboard. But it would supply them with the necessary energy they needed to keep going. "Definitely better than my old one."

"The dragon's head was impressive-looking at least," Hawke said, nudging him a bit.

"That was a friend's idea. He had it commissioned for me from a master blacksmith." He remembered Nathaniel's enthusiasm when he presented Anders with the headpiece.

Hawke made a noncommittal noise and they fell back into silence, watching the rest of the camp. Eventually as the night grew darker, the men crawled into tents or under blankets and the fire dwindled. Hawke clapped him on the knee, pushing himself to his feet.

"Hopefully we'll see some excitement tomorrow," he said.

"But not too much," Anders agreed.

Through the dim light of the camp, he saw Hawke smile. They said their goodnights and Anders watched Hawke duck into a tent. Bodahn came by to hand him a rolled up pallet, ensuring Anders had everything he needed before moving on. Anders situated himself, removing his boots and coat, draping the latter over himself, and lay on his back to look up at the stars. As the camp quieted, he found himself thinking about the events that led him there. All his time at the Circle, his Joining, his arrival in Kirkwall. He thought about just a few short weeks ago running through Lowtown, being chased by Templars, a hooded figure dropping down to stop them.

He wasn't sure when he'd fallen asleep or how long he'd been asleep when he woke. It was still dark, and the camp was quiet aside from a soft giggling.

"Shh."

He turned his head, eyes adjusting. The fire burned out completely. Someone snored and a few people shifted. There was a soft moan, and Anders realized with a blush what the noise was. Isabela no doubt, unless there were men in the camp who enjoyed each other's company. They didn't strike Anders as the type.

"Careful."

Though the voice was whispering, Anders recognized Isabela's accent. He blinked a few times, lifting his head a little toward the sound. Another moan, a male's, deep and sensuous. Suddenly a vicious, horrible realization struck him, and he lowered his head.

Hawke.

The moan had come from Hawke.

Anders squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the sounds coming from his tent. Another giggle from Isabela, a quiet shushing from Hawke. The quiet, rhythmic thrusting, soft grunting from Hawke. Anders' imagination supplied him with the man's face twisted in pleasure, lips parted, panting as Isabela rode him. His cock twitched, traitor that it was, and he rolled on his side, back to the noises. Another quiet moan.

"Fuck. Oh… Maker."

That from Hawke. Anders clenched his fist, holding it tightly to his chest, other arm curled under his head. The overwhelming jealousy he felt made him sick to his stomach. Of course Hawke would go for someone like her. Of course she would go for someone like him. Then again, who wasn't Isabela's type?

_He was a distraction anyway._

He felt a warm, comforting hand on his back, but it was only in his mind. Justice? Or just his overactive imagination? Anders huffed, fist unfurling. Hawke's friendship meant the world to him. He should be glad that his friend found love or lust in Isabela's arms. A brief respite before descending into the depths of the Deep Roads. And he, Anders, could take solace in the fact that he could refocus his energies on his cause. After the expedition he would return to his clinic, continue to help the refugees and citizens alike. Reach out to Thrask and Alain and pick up where he'd left off with Karl.

Karl.

The thought of his former lover did nothing to console him. Behind him, the noises finally petered out. He pulled his coat up over his head and let out a shaking breath. Isabela would be curled in Hawke's arms now, warm and enjoying the post-coital cuddling. Was Hawke the cuddling type? Maker have mercy, he couldn't stop thinking about the man. He tried to push the rugged, lined face from his mind and started alphabetizing potion ingredients. 

By the time he got to spindleweed, he was asleep again.

-

"Blondie. Hey, Blonnnnnndie."

Anders groaned as his coat was pulled away from his face. He'd tossed and turned during the night, somehow ending up rolling off the lumpy pallet, curled in the dirt. Varric looked down at him, crouched over.

"You all right?"

He sat up, rolling his shoulders, wincing at the pain. Varric straightened, shaking his head and clucking his tongue.

"'M fine," Anders muttered, rubbing his eyes. He removed the tie from his hair, running his fingers through it to comb it out before tying it back again. "Are we going?" he asked, covering a yawn with the back of his hand.

"Breakfast, then we're off," Varric said, handing him an apple.

Anders took it, biting into it and holding it between his teeth as he yanked on his boots. The morning was cool, dew covering the grass. Around the camp, men were grumbling into consciousness, packing up. Anders took a bite, chewed, and swallowed before looking up at Varric again.

"So we'll hit the entrance today?"

"Bartrand seems to think so," Varric replied. "I'm inclined to agree. Those maps you gave are a great help."

Anders shrugged. "So long as the entrances aren't caved in already." He felt an irritation he couldn't quite place.

To his left, a tent flap opened and Isabela emerged, straightening her tunic. She looked up suddenly, glanced over to Anders and Varric, winked, then crossed the camp to get breakfast. A moment later Hawke came out, doing up his belt around his blood red robe.

Oh.

And last night came back to him in a flood of annoyance and jealousy. He looked down at the apple in his hand, scowling as Varric chuckled.

"At least someone had a good night," he said. His laughter stopped abruptly, and Anders looked up. "Ah," Varric said, arms crossing over his chest. He was peering down at Anders with an annoying know-it-all look on his face. "I see."

"See what," Ander snapped. He stood, shrugging his coat on and picking up his things.

"Maker's breath, Blondie, I'm not blind."

Anders bit into the apple once more savagely, trying not to direct his anger at Varric. It wasn't his fault, but he had no desire to discuss his feelings right then. Luckily, Bodahn came by to roll up and collect the pallet, greeting them both cheerfully. Anders, grateful for the distraction, walked away from the impending awkward conversation and moved out of the clearing into the woods. Nature's call taken care of, he returned to the group a few minutes later. Varric was arguing with Bartrand, and the camp was nearly packed up.

"Sleep all right?"

Hawke's voice. Anders frowned, not turning.

"Anders?"

"Fine."

He'd replied through gritted teeth, gripping his staff tightly. He knew he was being unreasonable. Hawke had no obligation to him. He probably didn't even know how deeply Anders' feelings ran. Maker's breath, not even Anders had known, not until last night. Begrudgingly, he turned to look at Hawke. Hawke was staring at him with that intense look in his eye. Any resentfulness Anders felt started to ebb.

"Sorry, it was a rough night. Bad dreams," he offered lamely.

Hawke seemed to realize this wasn't the whole story, but didn't press. "If it's too much, you don't have to come. I don't want to cause any undue stress. If the Deep Roads remind you of…"

"There are a thousand other things I can think of that I'd rather be doing than potentially confronting darkspawn again," Anders agreed. "But seeing as how lying on a beach in Amaranthine, sipping wine and watching the waves roll in isn't an option, this is where I'll stay."

Hawke placed a hand on his shoulder and Anders had to stop himself from pulling away. "I really appreciate you coming."

Anders nodded, tight-lipped. Hawke frowned, sighing. He stepped away, pulling his hood up. Anders watched him walk away, wondering if he imagined the slump of his friend's shoulders. His knee jerked, but he resisted the urge to go to him, to explain himself.

_And what would happen if you did?_

He allowed himself a brief fantasy in which he would spin Hawke around, yell at him for his night with Isabela. Hawke would apologize, they'd confess their mutual attraction and share a heated kiss right there in front of everyone. Hawke would promise himself to Anders and Anders to him. Anders scoffed, shaking his head. Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.

"Let's head out!" Bartrand called, and Anders was happy for it.

Even though they were heading to the Deep Roads, the dark passages beneath the earth would provide a much needed distraction from the confusing thoughts and feelings bubbling up inside him. Maybe they'd get lucky and a darkspawn would relieve him of his misery. He could only be so lucky, he thought ruefully, though without any real conviction. As difficult as his life was turning out to be, he wasn't done with it yet.


	8. Chapter 8

Lamps were lit, carried on the ends of long poles, providing a pathetic amount of light. The darkness was suffocating, and Anders felt a vicious satisfaction in seeing the panic on others' faces before they started their descent. He wasn't the only one with apprehension. His stomach churned; the apple and ration bar he'd eaten earlier threatened to resurface. Swallowing nervously, he held his hand out, palm up and lit a ball of crackling energy. It cast a brilliant purple-white light that reached further than the lamps. He moved to the front of the group for the first time, senses prickling.

"Varric says you're a Grey Warden," Bartrand said by way of greeting as Anders fell even with him.

"Former," Anders agreed, hoping he wouldn't have to answer any questions about his previous adventures.

"I remember seeing groups of your kind in Orzammar."

Anders regretted his decision to provide luminescence to the path. He had no desire to listen to Bartrand wax nostalgic about a group he wished to forget. The alternative was to hang back and make awkward conversation with Hawke and Isabela, the memory of what they'd done last night still fresh in his mind. Or worse, talk to Varric about what his friend thought he might know regarding Anders' feelings. Truth be told, Bartrand was the best choice of the three, and Anders remained quiet, letting him talk.

"They would come down to drink with the deshyrs. We'd throw a big feast in their honor. Only humans we ever really let into the city. The Wardens have respect for our culture. They know what we've been through with the darkspawn attacks. And those bastards," though he used the word with a rough affection, "they go running headlong toward them. Bravest sons of bitches I ever met. A Warden gets old enough, he feels that taint in his blood." Bartrand laughed at Anders' expression. "Surprised? Sure, I know about the ritual and the Calling. It's not a complete secret. At least one dwarf in every noble family's gone off to join the Wardens or the Legion of the Dead."

"I met someone in the Legion," Anders said, recognizing the name. "She was… odd."

"They're all crazy," Bartrand agreed. "But honorable. Even casteless find their place in the Legion. Personally, I prefer not seeking out trouble. But sometimes I wish my father had gone and joined them instead dragging the whole damn house down with him."

Anders recalled Varric telling the story of his father getting caught fixing the Provings. He didn't seem too bothered by it, but Bartrand obviously felt differently. "Yet you're forging into the Deep Roads for honor and glory."

Bartrand snorted. "Hardly. I found information in an old tome about an abandoned thaig about a few miles down. With any luck it hasn't already been picked clean. Honor and glory are nice, but I'll leave that to the Legion and your brothers. Gold is what makes the world go round. We find what we're looking for and you and your buddy won't ever have to worry about Kirkwallers spitting on you again."

"I'm more concerned with Templars."

"I expect you would be," Batrand concurred. "Is that how you met that idiot Hawke? Through some secret renegade mage club?"

Anders frowned at the insult directed at Hawke. Apparently there was no love lost between Bartrand and him, but he felt a surge of indignation. "He's not an idiot. I've fought by his side more than once. He… helped me with a particularly difficult problem. I owe him."

"Best pay him back then and move on," Bartrand said. "My brother's too dumb to know better, but you don't want to get caught up with people like that. Nothing but trouble."

"I'll take it under advisement," Anders muttered. He transferred the light to the tip of his staff and dropped his hand.

Bartrand shrugged. "Your funeral, kid."

Unable to stomach any more of the conversation, Anders fell back a step or two. He felt Varric at his side almost instantly. So, he thought, now was the time for that inevitable conversation.

"I don't want to talk," Anders said before Varric could say anything.

"Fair enough," Varric agreed.

There was silence between them as they continued to walk through the chilly passageway, kicking rocks as they followed the slowly sloping cave into the darkness. Anders gritted his teeth.

"What?" he snapped.

Varric looked up at him, wide-eyed and falsely innocent. "What?"

"You're doing that thing."

"What thing, Blondie? You'll have to be more specific."

"That thing where you stay quiet, hoping I'll tell you something you want to hear."

"Is that a thing I do?" Varric asked, and Anders wanted to punch him in his smug face. "I'm touched that you've been paying me so much attention that you know all my subtle nuances."

Anders let out an exasperated breath. "Stop torturing me."

"I don't have to torture you. You're doing a beautiful job of it yourself."

"You want to talk about Hawke."

"Mm. Do you want to talk about Hawke?" Varric countered. "I'm all ears."

Did he? It would be nice to have someone to talk to, a friend he could trust with a secret like this. And maybe if he got it off his chest, he could let go some of the things he felt for Hawke. It would be a relief to rid himself of the infatuation, to resume their friendship without the uncomfortable, unrequited feelings. To look at Isabela and not want to throttle her for doing with Hawke what Anders had only fantasized about.

"It's a stupid crush," Anders said at last.

"Well," said Varric tactfully, "I'm not sure I'd call it stupid. From what I know about you, your life's been anything but easy. You come across a good-looking guy like Hawke, a fellow mage who's got similar goals as you? It's easy to see why you'd fall for him."

"Why are you being so nice?"

"Because unlike my brother, I happen to see people beyond their monetary worth. And call me sentimental, but I like you. Think you're a little in over your head, but you mean well."

They paused their conversation as the entourage had to stop. A cave-in, though not impassable, stood in their way. Several mercenaries broke out climbing gear, tossing up grappling hooks to gain a hold on the large boulders. Anders closed his eyes, reaching out with both magic and the extra added sense that allowed him to search for darkspawn presence. He felt nothing, though beyond the cave-in he could feel the taint, black and slick like oil, over the surfaces of the walls, the ground.

"Be careful," he warned the men. "When you drop down the other side. It'll look like moss or mold. Don't touch it."

They gave him inquisitive looks, but Bartrand grunted. "Listen to him. We're not dragging your sorry carcasses back to the surface if you get sick down here."

In all it took nearly an hour to get everyone and the equipment over. Anders slid from the rock, tripping slightly. Strong hands steadied him, and he lingered against Hawke's broad chest for a moment.

"All right?" Hawke asked, setting him upright.

"Thanks," Anders said, trying to force a smile.

"Sure."

And Hawke walked away without another word. Anders wondered if he could repair the damage he'd done. He'd obviously caused a schism in their friendship from his actions earlier in the morning. He'd never wanted to push him away, but how could explain it without causing both of them massive discomfort? The group moved on and Anders found himself seeking Varric out this time.

"So what am I supposed to do now?" he asked, almost pleadingly.

"Nuh-uh. That's not my place. I don't tell people what to do."

Anders sighed. "What would you do if you were me?"

"Hawke's a tough guy to get an angle on," Varric offered. "It's difficult to say how he'd react. I do know his fling with Isabela is just that. She's not one to let herself get tied down. Uh. Metaphorically speaking, that is," he amended. "I don't think he's looking for any kind of a relationship there and if he is, he's going to find himself horribly, horribly heartbroken."

The thought of Hawke being in love with Isabela wasn't entirely laughable, but Anders found comfort in Varric's words. Isabela wasn't the settling down type, and who was to say that she was even planning on staying in Kirkwall in the future?

"But what about…" Anders started, gesturing at himself.

"You mean yourself or men in general?" Varric asked.

"I guess both," Anders replied. "You do seem to know him best."

"We don't really talk romance," Varric admitted. "At least, he's never said anything about it to me, drunk or sober. Carver talks enough for the both of them. Kid's so green when it comes to his brother he puts grass to shame. Can't say I blame him fully. If I was Hawke's brother…" He trailed off, and Anders noticed he was looking at Bartrand. "Still. I know he's had a few girls in his past."

"So it's really that hopeless," Anders said, defeated.

"Aw, come on, Blondie. Nothing's hopeless. After all, we're trekking down into the deepest, darkest part of the Deep Roads on the off chance that we might possibly get rich without getting eaten. If anything was hopeless, it would be this, right?"

His jesting did little to cheer Anders up.

Varric sighed. "Look. At the very least, he doesn't seem bothered by the idea. After all, he knows about your predilections. Your penchant for being an equal-opportunity lover." He drew out the word 'lover' letting it roll off his tongue as he nudged him in the side.

Anders couldn't help but laugh a bit at that.

"There we go," Varric said, pleased with himself. "All right. You want my advice. Tell him how you feel. See what happens. The worst thing that could happen is that it's awkward for a few days and then you go right back to the way things were. It's obvious he's fond of you."

"Obvious how?" Anders asked. Had Varric seen something he hadn't?

Varric glanced at him. "Really?"

"Humor me."

"Well for one thing, you've got his staff in your hands. Andraste's ass that sounded like a bad euphemism," he muttered, shaking his head. "Not to mention the looks. The touching."

Anders had noticed that, but he assumed it was simply Hawke's way. After all, hadn't he done the same with Isabela? With Fenris? "And that's indication that he's… fond of me."

"Well that and he hasn't set your hair on fire. He tends to be a bit volatile with people who annoy him."

"Hadn't noticed," Anders said flatly.

It was Varric's turn to laugh. "Seriously. If he didn't like you, he'd have taken the maps and that would've been that. He looks out for his friends and from what I can tell, you're definitely on that very short list. He associates with a lot of people in Kirkwall. Maybe not as many as I do," he added immodestly. "But only a few can get as close to him as you have so far. So what's the worst that could happen?"

"I don't know."

"Just think about it."

Anders did think about it over the next few hours. His head ached by the time they stopped briefly to eat and drink. He watched Hawke closely, whispering with Varric, wondering what they were talking about. He felt a surge of panic that quickly subsided. No way would Varric tell Hawke what they'd discussed privately. He jumped as slim arms snaked their way around his shoulders, and it took everything he had not to respond instinctively.

"Isabela." He turned with a frown as she laced her hands behind his neck, grinning. "You shouldn't do that. I could've killed you," he said gently.

"It takes a lot to kill me," she chuckled, leaning close.

"What are you doing?" He reached back, trying to break her grip from around his neck.

"We're going to be down here a long time. I thought maybe I could come stay in your tent tonight."

"I don't have a tent," he said, stepping back.

Unfortunately her vice-like grip held and she pressed up against him. His hands went instinctively to her hips and she pushed close, grinding crudely. He closed his eyes, and she laughed softly against his ear.

"I'll let you come to me then," she whispered before stepping back.

He opened his eyes, letting out a shaky breath. She blew him a kiss and walked away, hips swaying, to go torture her next victim. Anders looked around a bit unsteadily. No one seemed to notice their exchange, the others getting ready to continue the trek. He pinched the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes against the hormones that had decided to rear their ugly heads. Isabela must've taken his actions as jealousy. Not of her, but of Hawke. Or perhaps she just had fond memories of their first and last time together years ago. Regardless, it had been a long time since he'd been in the company of either man or woman. He would need to learn to control himself better.

Grateful when they continued, Anders kept to himself. It was impossible to tell time in the Deep Roads with no changing from daylight to nighttime. Their internal clocks were quickly thrown off and he had to suppress memories of a similar time when he found himself locked away in the dungeon of Kinloch Hold, nothing but books, rats, and Mr. Wiggums to keep him company. Meals were delivered regularly, but whether or not they came at the same exact time, he couldn't tell. Being in the Deep Roads was hellish, but given the choice, he'd take a trip like this this any day of the week over that year of solitary confinement.

A few hours later, just as Anders had stumbled again for the third time, Bartrand held up a hand. "We camp here for the night."

They stopped before a large set of stone doors. Anders couldn't read the markings on them, not even sure if they were dwarven writing or just a fancy design. The area was huge, but even in the dim light, they could still see the ceiling of the cave, the walls, and the dirt floor. Beyond, he imagined there would be a thaig, an abandoned city where the dwarves used to live, and their highways. It had taken them a day (possibly more, he reasoned, with no real idea what time it was) just to reach here. He hoped that a week was an overestimation of how long it would actually take overall.

"I've got room in my tent."

Anders startled from thought. Hawke was standing in front of him. "Hm?"

"My tent. I saw Isabela earlier with you. If you wanted some privacy with her."

It took him a moment before he understood what Hawke was offering. His heart sank, and he hoped it wasn't too apparent on his face. "Oh. No. No, thank you. She was just being a bit… overzealous, I'm afraid. I already told her I wasn't interested. In her," he added, and his eyes flicked to Hawke's lips before looking back up at him.

"All right." Hawke's tone, like his expression, was unreadable.

He turned to go and Anders reached out quickly, grabbing his wrist. A spark of electricity shot through his fingers inadvertently, but Hawke didn't pull away. Instead, he turned back, looking down first at Anders' hand, then up at him.

"I wanted to apologize for the way I've been acting," Anders said quickly. "I just… have a lot on my mind and it's not fair that I've been taking it out on you."

"I understand."

"No," Anders said. "I don't think you do." He licked his lips, painfully aware of how many people were around them. "It's not just about the Deep Roads and darkspawn and nightmares. I just don't think I can explain it fully. Not yet. Do you… would you accept that?"

Hawke turned fully toward him and Anders let him go. Squaring his shoulders, Hawke crossed his arms over his chest and looked at him. "It's fair enough," he agreed. "Everyone has secrets. But you know you can trust me, right?"

"I do." Anders smiled tiredly.

"Take the tent anyway," Hawke said. "It's got to be more comfortable than what Bodahn's got you sleeping on. You look like you could use it."

"What about you?" Anders asked.

"We'll switch off. Go on. The pillow's got soft feathers that would put your coat to shame." Hawke grinned, reaching out to pluck a feather from his pauldron.

"Hey!" 

Anders reached for it, but Hawke pulled it out of his grasp, hand against Anders' chest, holding him at bay. With a smirk, Hawke threaded it through his belt.

"What's one feather in a thousand?" he said, dropping his hand.

Anders brushed off his pauldrons, pretending to be put out. "They have magical properties, you know."

"All the more reason you should share with a fellow mage," Hawke said, stepping back again as Anders made another half-hearted grab.

"Oh very well," he said, defeated.

Hawke adjusted the feather, nodded once, and gestured toward his tent. "Use it. Or I'll give it to Sandal for the night."

"I will," Anders said. The thought of a soft pillow and a warm bed was enticing after all.

They said goodnight, and he removed his boots before crawling inside. While there was less a need for a tent in the cave than outside in the forest, it somehow felt less oppressive. In the forest, he could see the stars and the moon and the clouds. He heard the nighttime critters, felt the breeze in his hair. But underground it was just dark and cold and damp. Even a fire felt artificial with no wind to speak of. Inside the tent, he could imagine he wasn't miles under the earth, tons of heavy rock bearing down on him. Outside, he heard the rest of the entourage readying themselves for bed.

He stripped off his coat and shirt, tossing them aside and settled down. The bedroll was infinitely softer than the one Bodhan gave him the previous night, and his head sank into the feather pillow. When he closed his eyes, pulling the blankets up over him, he could almost pretend he wasn't on an expedition with a dozen or so other people. Instead, he was safe in bed. He indulged himself in a fantasy he'd often done with Karl. They weren't living in the Circle. They had their own house in a world where mages were free to do as they like so long as they didn't harm anyone. And Karl was there to hold him and kiss him and promise that they would be happy.

Almost unconsciously, his hand drifted from his bare stomach, scratching his fingernails along the muscle, stopping at the waistband of his pants. It wasn't Karl anymore. He inhaled and suddenly it was fire and smoke and magic. Hawke behind him, arms around him. He tilted his head back, exposing his neck. Hawke placed hot kisses just behind his ear, teeth moving to the lobe, biting. He wasn't gentle, and Anders didn't care. He left a trail of angry red bruises down his neck to his shoulder, hand sliding between his legs. Anders bit his lip to keep from crying out as he squeezed himself through his pants.

Suddenly they were all too constricting and he fumbled at the ties. The leather parted and he sighed in relief as he wrapped his hand around his cock, giving it the attention it had been demanding of him for weeks now. But it wasn't enough. With a quick, guilty look around the empty tent, he dug through his pack and pulled out a salve for burns. He dipped his fingers in, coated his palm, and repacked it. Slowly he stroked himself to full hardness. The Hawke in his mind's eye did the same, his own strong hand over Anders', guiding him, still kissing him. He thrust his hips, trying to move back, imagining what it would feel like in Hawke's embrace again. Not friendly, but intimately. Hawke's own erection pressed against his ass, grinding against him.

Anders brought his free fist to his mouth, biting hard on a knuckle to keep from crying out as he continued to tease himself. Long, slow strokes up and down his shaft. He paused for a breath, thumb sliding over the sensitive head, back and forth. Someone outside the tent grunted, shifted, and Anders paused, eyes opening in the darkness. A quiet conversation he couldn't hear, a soft laugh of one of the men, then silence. He closed his eyes, moving the pillow from beneath his head to on top of it, pressing it over his mouth as he started stroking himself again. The pillow smelled of Hawke and he inhaled deeply. What would his mouth feel like, wrapped around his cock, sucking him to completion?

He thrust violently into his hand, hips jerking, tightening his fist. He could see Hawke between his legs, hood drawn up over his head, pinning him. He was in control, always in control. The warm, wet suction, tongue pressing along the underside. Anders bit down hard on the pillow, tears pricking the corners of his eyes as his fantasy brought him to orgasm, harder and hotter than he could ever remember. He didn't dare bring the pillow away from his face, lest someone hear him gasping for breath.

Slowly coming back to himself, still breathing hard but quietly now, he pulled the pillow away and silently drew a breath of fresh air. He raised his head, wincing at the mess on his hand and stomach. Maker… what the hell had he done? At least, he reasoned, he hadn't masturbated into Hawke's pillow. The saliva from his bite would dry and Hawke would be none the wiser, he hoped. Fumbling in the dark, he pulled his pack over and removed a linen cloth. He'd be down a bandage, but it was better than using Hawke's blanket to clean up.

He knew he wouldn't have opportunity to bathe while they were stuck down in the Deep Roads unless they came across a clean water source. It was possible, though unlikely. By the end of it they would all smell like dirt and sweat. He doubted anyone would be able to tell what he did. At least, he desperately hoped not. Rolling the soiled linen bandage tightly, he shoved it at the bottom of his pack, promising to remember to toss it out discreetly in the morning. He carefully fixed his clothing and pulled the blankets up to his chin, settling back on the pillow once more.

Sleep came much more easily to him that night.

-

To his relief, no one seemed to have any idea what transpired in the tent that night. The next few days were a blur of travel, rest, and tales around the fire before bed. He fell back easily into a quiet camaraderie with Hawke which pleased him at the same time it frustrated him. Though he didn't see or hear Hawke take Isabela to his tent again, she was still flirty as ever. Anders wasn't sure if she had a sixth sense for when their conversations turned serious, but she always seemed to interrupt at the most inopportune times.

After their midday meal on what was probably their fourth day of travelling, a scout approached Bartrand, slightly out of breath.

"Rockslide ahead. It's blocking the whole damn path. It'll take at least two days to clear it."

Bartrand stood for a moment, twisting the end of his beard thoughtfully. His shoulders dropped, he drew back smoothly and punched the scout hard in the face. Anders winced and Varric shook his head as the scout fell to the ground. Varric strode over, Hawke at his heels.

"Might as well set camp here," Bartrand said irritably.

Varric knelt down to help the scout to his feet. "Just relax, brother," he said.

Anders recognized the pacifying tone Varric usually reserved for Carver.

"This is why you bring along people like me," Hawke said, gesturing toward a large cave off the path.

There had been several off the road, though the expedition stuck to the main thoroughfare. They'd had excellent luck, coming across only one small pack of deepstalkers – a wormlike vertebrate with legs – that was dispatched easily. They ate well that night, too. It looked like their luck could hold out only so long, though. Anders sighed and removed a small pouch of lyrium and elfroot potions from his pack. Tucking that into his coat, he took up his staff and joined the conversation. Hawke looked at him, nodded.

"We'll search the side passage, look for a way through," Varric said. "If we find anything, we'll come back and let you know."

Bartrand grumbled and waved a hand.

"Isabela," Hawke called sharply.

She stood up quickly, having started pawing through someone's pack and hurried over. "Hm?"

"We've got a job to do."

"About bloody time," she said agreeably. "I was getting bored."

The walls glittered with a natural light, aided by some oozing lava along the edges. The cave glowed eerily, and Anders reached out tentatively, trying to feel any darkspawn. It unnerved him that he couldn't. Not that he relished the idea of meeting them, but he thought there would be at least a pack or two. The tunnel was enormous, and through the dark Anders could barely make out the ceiling. Dampness hung in the air, and he heard the dripping of water. They walked for several minutes until Anders felt a prickling on the back of his neck.

"Wait!" Varric hissed, holding up a hand. He pivoted to the side, frowning. "Spider web."

It was impossible to see straight on, but as Anders turned as well, he saw it. Fine strands of webbing, running the entire length of the cavern. A skittering sounded above him and he looked up.

"Watch out!" he screamed, grabbing Hawke's wrist and pulling him roughly away.

A huge black spider the size of a horse landed where Hawke had been standing. Isabela disappeared in a puff of smoke, appearing a second later on top of it, jamming a dagger into its eyes. Its pincers clicked wildly and it reared up but she'd already pulled her dagger free and leapt off it. Hawke was on his feet, staff out and pointed, a burst of flame exploding from the end. It enveloped the spider, roasting it, the carapace melting away.

The flame caught on the web and quickly burned it away. Two more spiders of similar size dropped from it, landing on their backs, legs flailing. Varric aimed his bow in the air and let loose a rapid volley. Several dozen arrows fell quickly, ripping through their legs and bodies.

"Ah, shit!" Isabela swore, hissing in pain.

Anders glanced around; the danger was over as quickly as it had begun. He jogged to where she stood, wincing and shaking her arm uselessly. Her skin was bubbling, angry and red. A burn? Had Hawke's spell hit her? On closer inspection, it seemed to be the result of some poison or venom. He took her wrist.

"Hang on," he said, feeling the burning in his own palm as he held his hand over the wound. An icy balm spread over her skin as he concentrated his magic. He lifted up quickly, drawing the venom out, tossing it idly against the wall. Another pass with his hand, this time with a warm, blue light, healed the damage. He trailed his fingers along her skin, checking to make sure the bone was still intact.

"Sexy," she purred.

He gave her a disparaging look before dropping her wrist and moving toward one of the spiders.

"What do you make of it?" Varric asked him, already starting to collect the arrows from the ground.

Anders held his breath and leaned close. "Burning venom. Deadly if not treated, but your standard elfroot potion will take care of it. I'd imagine it would go for quite a lot of gold on the Undercity market if it was harvested."

Varric grunted. "We'll be sure to tell Bartrand then. He can get one of his lackeys to do it."

Anders looked backward toward Hawke, who was crouched down, looking at something on the ground. "Hawke?"

"Come here," he said, waving him over without looking back. "Look at this."

Anders approached, peering over his shoulder. He crouched as well, feeling it almost at once. "Is that…?" he asked, suddenly breathless.

"Mm," Hawke said. "I've never see it in raw form."

"What are you two chuckleheads looking at?" Varric called.

"Lyrium," Hawke said, shifting a bit so Varric could see. A blue, spiky, glowing rock formation jutted from the ground.

Varric let out a whistle. "That is worth a lot."

"Boys and their shiny things," Isabela said, rolling her eyes.

"What do you think?" Hawke asked Varric.

"If we can process it? That's a good-sized chunk. I don't know, Hawke. Five, maybe ten gallons."

"Ten gallons," Anders said reverently. He knew better than to reach out and touch it with his bare hands. Still, it would be a shame to leave it there. Or worse, let Bartrand get his hands on it. He could only imagine it would be refined and then sold to the highest smuggler who'd only sell it to the Templars. "Here." 

He stood, and Hawke did as well. Using the tip of his staff, digging into the ground, he pried up the dirt around the stone. It took several minutes, but eventually he freed it. He reached out, plucking the sash from Isabela's waist.

"Hey! That's Orlesian!" she protested.

"I'll buy you a new one later, sweetheart," he said, handing it to Varric. "Would you mind?"

"I get it. Use the dwarf and his natural immunity to lyrium to handle your rocks for you."

"Someone needs to handle his rocks," Isabela muttered.

Varric covered the lyrium in the sash and carefully tucked it Hawke's proffered pack. Hawke shouldered it, and Anders caught the barest shiver. He could only imagine what it felt like to have raw lyrium that close, like an endless well of strength to draw from. It was a shame that prolonged exposure in that form could drive a person mad. He'd have to take the pack from Hawke eventually, possibly even convince Varric to take it for a while. Mages were too susceptible to its effects. How often had his tutors lectured him on the dangers? Unprocessed lyrium had the ability to kill a mage outright if they weren't careful.

They reached the end of the passage, relieved when they saw it continued on past the cave-in. The large highway stretched down for half a mile, turning the corner. Rivers of lava on either side lit the path, and a sign etched with dwarven runes apparently indicated they were in the right spot.

"Let's tell Bartrand," said Varric. "He'll be so pleased."


	9. Chapter 9

"Break it open."

Anders knelt down with the others behind a large fallen statue, covering his ears as the explosives rang through the cavern. Bartrand gave a whoop of victory as the dust and bits of rock settled. Anders stood, coughing and waving his hand in front of him to see through the smoke cloud. The doors were blown apart, creating a sizable gap. They climbed through, slipping on loose stone until Bartrand stopped dead, looking up.

"By the Paragons," he breathed.

Anders followed his gaze, feeling his own jaw dropping. The thaig was enormous, but that in itself wasn't remarkable. Huge statues reaching up into the darkness, carefully carved architecture, intricate rune-working. The entire area was lit with a phosopholuminescent glow. No rivers of lava, no oil lamps. Enormous blue jutting rocks, natural in their formation, burst from the ground, glimmering brightly. He couldn't place the type of stone beyond 'not lyrium.' They moved further in and he felt a thrum of power. He stopped quickly, Isabela bumping into him from behind. 

"What?" she asked, and was quickly shushed by Hawke.

He reached out, trying to discern that thrum. It was lyrical, song-like. Pleasant in a way, almost. He'd heard the darkspawn before: a humming, drum-like beat that was impossible to get out of his head. He would hear it for what seemed like days after, even though it wasn't there, until he felt like he needed to claw his own skull open just to get it out of his brain. He hummed quietly, in tune with whatever it was. 

"What is it?" Hawke finally asked, hand on his shoulder.

"Not darkspawn," Anders answered. "I'm not sure. Can you feel it? It's nice."

"Almost feels like raw power," Hawke agreed. "Maybe more lyrium?"

"Possibly, though I don't ever remember lyrium in any form giving off a tune."

"I don't hear anything," Isabela said, arms crossed, looking haughty.

Anders turned to smirk at her. "Must be a mage thing."

She huffed, and Hawke chuckled, shaking his head. Anders felt a small curl of victory at the exchange, watching Isabela walk away irritated. Meanwhile, Bartrand ordered camp to be set, and Varric moved to talk to him.

"What is this place?"

"I don't know," Anders heard Bartrand say. "I thought… an abandoned thaig. But this is so old. And it doesn't look like any thaig I've ever seen."

"Shall we explore then?" Hawke asked with a mischievous grin, looking at Anders.

"Lead the way," he agreed, hoping they would find the source of the thrumming.

Hawke did, and they walked together through the winding roads. Anders had been through abandoned thaigs before on his excursions with the Wardens. Squat, sturdy buildings that were built for purpose and function, not aesthetics. They were exactly the type of architecture you'd expect from a squat, sturdy race built for the same thing. But this was something much different. He let his fingers play over the stone walls, which were sanded so smoothly he could almost see his reflection in them.

"I've never seen something like this," he said, as Hawke came up behind him. 

He turned, suddenly realizing they were alone, away from the others. He could hear Bartrand and Varric arguing in the distance, around a corner or two. But in the dim, glowing reddish light, it was just himself and Hawke.

"It's impressive," Hawke agreed. He nodded at a large building toward the end of what appeared to be a town square. "Want to see what's inside?"

It took Anders a moment to realize what he meant, caught up in a brief fantasy of Hawke pressing him against the wall and kissing him breathless. He nodded, praying to the Maker that his expression didn't show any inkling of what had just gone through his head. Hawke lit the end of his staff and walked across the square, then climbed the crumbling steps. Anders was reminded of a temple, a Chantry building. Even though his knowledge of dwarves could fill a thimble, he knew they didn't worship gods. They had their ancestors for that – a much more practical group of people to worship, he thought.

Hawke put his shoulder to the door, muscles straining as he pushed it open with a grunt. Anders added his own staff's light and they slipped inside. His initial guess was closer than he'd thought. Inside, stone benches lined up like pews. At the front, a dais with an altar, and what looked like humanoid remains. Tentatively, Anders approached. The skeleton was too large to be a dwarf, and too thin to be human.

"Elven?" Hawke guessed, moving to stand next to him.

"So it would seem." Anders frowned. "But why would elven bones be this far beneath the surface? Elves never lived underground, did they?"

"I don't know," Hawke admitted. "Something to ask Merrill, maybe. She knows all about ancient elven lore."

"Mm."

"What?"

Anders turned to look at him. "Nothing, just…" He trailed off, trying to find the words, to find the question without implicating himself. 'Are you thinking about getting into a relationship with Merrill?' seemed rather obvious though.

"I don't like her use of blood magic any more than you do," Hawke said, moving to hoist himself up on the altar. He carefully avoided the bones, leaning his staff against the side. "But you have to admit, she's about as harmless as a pup."

It wasn't exactly what Anders had been thinking about, but if Hawke believed his irritation with Merrill stemmed from her use of blood magic – and it did in part – then that was a relief. "No one who uses blood magic is harmless," he said quietly. "She claims to know what she's doing, but to use blood magic, you have to look a demon in the eye. You have to accept its offer."

"I know," Hawke replied. He looked down, boots kicking idly at the altar as his legs swung.

Anders watched, slightly amused by the somewhat childlike movement. "But you still think she's not a danger."

"To herself? Definitely," Hawke said. "But not to others." He paused and added, "She still won't tell me the reason she left the Dalish."

"So… you've gone to visit?" Anders prompted, hoping he sounded casual.

"A few times. Though I leave it mostly to Carver. I introduced them and I think he's a bit sweet on her."

Anders winced. "Poor Merrill," he said, before he could stop himself.

Hawke laughed, the sound echoing off the stone walls in the dark. "I think she can handle herself. He's gone to see her every day since I brought him the first time. It's a good distraction for them both."

"That's good. I thought you…"

Hawke looked at him, eyebrow raised. "Hm?"

Anders shook his head. "Nothing."

"You're doing it again," Hawke said, irritably.

Anders frowned. "What? What am I doing?"

"You start to say something and then change your mind. For a wordy bastard, you go awfully quiet sometimes."

The statement took him aback and he was too stunned for a moment to say anything. "Did you just call me a-"

"Wordy bastard," Hawke repeated with a grin. "I don't mind. It's a good thing. You're passionate about the thing that matters most to you. It's important. Some people go their whole lives not finding a purpose. You're already waist-deep in yours. It's… nice to see people like you fighting for people like us."

"You mean mages?" Anders asked. He leaned his staff next to Hawke's and pulled himself to sit next to him. "I shouldn't be the only one fighting for our rights."

"My father would've liked you."

For the second time in almost as many minutes, Anders was stunned. This wasn't the conversation he envisioned himself having ever. He remembered trying to bring up Hawke's father and being shut down just as quickly. "Why?"

"He was like you. I think that's why Mother was drawn to him. Always wanting to help the underdog. And in our family that mostly meant mages. But he was the kind of guy who'd give you the shirt off his back if you were cold. He always wanted to see the good in people."

Anders looked at him while he spoke. Hawke, who was normally so gruff, so closed off, was opening up now. Here, to him. He was reminded of the night Karl died. How softly Hawke spoke about his sister. The raw pain, how horrible it must have felt to relive that. And he'd done it to make Anders open up, to show him there could be trust between them. Anders slid his hand across the altar, fingertips laying gently over Hawke's. Hawke looked down.

"I think I would've liked your father too," Anders said, determined to not look at him. "Better than my own, but that's not really so difficult. My father was a right prig."

Hawke let out a soft laugh. His eyes shifted from their hands to the floor, and Anders was relieved when he didn't move away. "I think all fathers are, to a point."

"Have you ever wanted children?" Anders asked, changing the conversation, bringing it away from dangerous territories. The last thing he felt like doing now was discussing his father and subsequently, his imprisonment in the Circle.

"Never really gave it much thought," Hawke admitted. "There wasn't much opportunity for romance on the run. Even though we settled in Lothering for a while… there was a girl, I guess. If we'd stayed, I might have had a family with her. More out of boredom than any real sense of wanting one."

"That's… an odd reason to have a family."

Hawke shrugged. "She wasn't exactly my type. I mean, she was very pretty, all blond hair and blue eyes, rosy cheeks and so on."

Anders tamped down the ridiculous flare of jealousy he felt for this nameless, faceless girl from Hawke's past. "So what happened?"

"She was Carver's girlfriend."

Anders laughed despite himself. "I'm sorry, what?"

Hawke grinned, a bit sheepishly Anders thought, as he shrugged again. "She was Carver's girlfriend but she always had a bit of a crush on me. I was young and stupid and didn't realize how much it would hurt him if I gave in to her advances. Stupid, stupid move," he said, his tone shifting from amusement to something grimmer. "I didn't mean to hurt him. I was only with her two or three weeks before word of the Blight came. Lothering was overrun with refugees and we only just escaped in time."

"What happened to her?" Anders asked tentatively.

"She moved to Redcliffe. Carver got a letter from her a little while ago. Apparently she's married to a farmhand now and expecting her first."

"Oh. That's… good. I'm glad she made it," Anders said, hoping that was the right thing to say. And when Hawke didn't reply, he continued. "Did you wish it was you instead?"

"What?" Hawke asked, looking at him. "And miss all this?" He gestured with his free hand around the empty temple.

Anders couldn't tell by his tone if he was being serious or not. "I know, I know. Having a family must seem utterly boring in comparison to saving apostates, fighting corpses and giant spiders and trekking down into the deepest, darkest parts of Thedas looking for lost treasures."

Hawke laughed. "Ah. Maybe when I'm old and grey I'll look back and wish I'd passed on my name. But I'd like to think I'd have no regrets when it came to this."

"You think you'll make it?" Anders asked.

"Make it?"

"To be old and grey," he clarified. "There are some days that I'm not so sure…" He frowned, looking away. 

Anders felt Hawke slip his hand out from under his, then felt the cool leather of his fingerless gloves slide over his skin. Hawke gave a reassuring squeeze that made Anders' stomach flutter. He felt similarly comforted and foolish. It was a friendly gesture, nothing more.

"If I have anything to say about it," Hawke said, his voice deeper, richer now, "I'll make sure we both live to be old and grey so we can look back on this and talk about what complete idiots we were to follow Varric down into this hole."

Anders smiled and glanced up at him. Hawke was looking at him intently, green eyes seeming to dance in the glowing light of their staves. He felt the nervous pull in his chest, the fluttering in his stomach increased. Would Hawke…? Would he…? Anders licked his lips but didn't dare move, eyes flicking to Hawke's mouth, then back up. Then, in an instant the moment was broken, Hawke sliding from the altar, taking up his staff. Anders shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose.

 _Don't be stupid,_ he chided himself.

He followed suit, stepping down and taking up his own staff. Hawke led the way out. Varric, looking ruffled, waved them over.

"Bartrand's tried sending them out in groups but the Coterie's oh so brave warriors don't want to go down the side passages in case of beasties."

"Can't say I blame them," Anders said.

"Yeah, well, now it's our job to see what we can find. Clear out any more giant spiders and hope that's the worst we find." He turned. "Isabela, time to be a hero again," he called.

"Just when I was starting to get used to the idea of possibly never coming in contact with anything dirty and slimy again," she said, adjusting the dagger in her boot.

"You wouldn't have much of a social life," Anders muttered before biting his lip.

Beside him, Hawke snorted, and Anders felt a mix of guilt and pride. Luckily, Isabela hadn't heard him. Before they could head off, Bodahn came rushing up to them, breathless.

"Sorry to interrupt," he said, polite as ever. "But have you seen my boy? I think he's run off. I was handing out rations and he just disappeared. I think he might have gone into the cave."

Anders frowned. Sandal had seemed easily distracted. And while there were no butterflies to chase down here, it was entirely possible he saw something shiny and wandered away.

"Please," Bodahn begged, "if you see him, bring him back. He doesn't understand danger the way he should."

"Of course we'll look for him," Hawke said, before anyone else could answer. "We'll bring him back, Bodahn, don't worry."

Bodahn sighed in relief, hunching over a bit. "Thank you, messere. Thank you. I knew I could count on you."

Bodahn walked away, Varric shaking his head slightly. "Here's hoping the cave's empty. Poor kid."

They crossed over a small bridge under which a silvery stream was flowing slowly. Anders looked down, the water crystal clear to the bottom. It wasn't very deep, perhaps three or four feet, shiny colorful rocks decorating the river bed. He wondered if further down there would be a lake. Perhaps fish. It would be a nice change from the ration bars. Varric headed their group, stomping down stone steps, muttering about useless hirelings.

"Hang on," Varric said. "Might not want to touch the walls."

Anders looked past him, into the cavern beyond. The source of the reddish glow and the humming became apparent, and it was like seeing myth brought to life.

"Red lyrium."

"What?" Hawke asked.

"In the Circle, they spoke about it, but only as a concept." Anders felt a nervous excitement growing in his chest. He'd read about it, studied it. He and Karl had conversations regarding the possibility of it existing. "Lyrium in its purest form. The closer it forms near the surface, the less potent it is. It changes in color, losing the red hue. The air or the chemicals in the air turn it bluish. Still deadly and dangerous unrefined, of course. But not like this." He stepped closer to inspect, but dared not to touch it. He closed his eyes, letting the melodic whispers wash over him.

"Anders!"

His eyes snapped open and he turned, swaying a bit. Hawke pulled him quickly away from the wall.

"Sorry," Anders said, shaking his head. He felt as if he'd been dreaming for days.

"We should keep going," Varric said. "And maybe not get too close."

"I think you're right," Anders agreed with a shudder.

They trekked on until coming to what looked like a dead end. The cave stopped abruptly, but a sliver of light passed through a door hidden in the rock. Varric and Hawke shoved at it together, pushing it open. It opened into a sort of foyer, gold colored bricks and a high chandelier beyond. And at the end of the chamber, stood a lone figure.

"Is that… Bodahn's boy?" Varric asked.

They stepped inside, Isabela suddenly startling and moving back quickly. Anders turned and his heart leapt as well. But the huge ogre that was leaning toward them was immobile, frozen in place, and hopefully dead. Towering perhaps fifteen feet or more above them, its hands reached out, claws extended. Its mouth was open, revealing razor sharp teeth. At its feet, a dozen darkspawn lay dead.

Sandal turned around, grinning when he saw them. "Hello!" he greeted cheerfully.

Varric gaped. Anders ran a hand back through his hair, staff held loosely in the other. Isabela shook her head, but walked toward the darkspawn, knives out just in case. Hawke took a few hesitant steps forward, then kneeled down to eye-level with Sandal.

"Are you all right?" he asked, putting a hand on Sandal's shoulder.

Sandal nodded, still grinning.

"And you did this?" Hawke asked, nodding to the darkspawn. Sandal nodded again. "How?"

Sandal closed his eyes, rocking back and forth on his heels. "Not enchantment!" he declared.

"And the ogre?"

Sandal dug into his pocket and pulled out a small rock with a rune carved into it. "Boom!"

Hawke looked back at Varric, who let out a breath.

"Smart boy," he muttered.

"Your father's worried, Sandal," Hawke said, standing. "Think you can make it back to the entrance?"

Sandal nodded, and they watched him go. Anders exchanged a look with Hawke and Varric, no one quite knowing what to say. Isabela let out a triumphant call.

"Here!" she said, turning and tossing a coin pouch to Varric.

Varric caught it, eyebrow raised. "What in the name of Andraste do darkspawn need with gold?"

"Maybe they won it in a bet," Anders said offhandedly. He was glad they didn't have to fight them. A pack that small might have easily been dispatched, but he didn't relish the idea of coming up against them ever again.

He climbed the staircase at the end of the room, unconsciously following the thrumming. On a pedestal sat an idol, twisted in some imitation of a human. Its eyes were wide and sunken, skeletal hands clasped in front of it as if it were praying. It looked golden in color except for the bottom, which was carved from an onyx material, jagged and wicked looking. He felt Hawke move beside him.

"Made from lyrium," Anders breathed. "Coated in… something."

Hawke put his hand over it; Anders reached out to stop him. But Hawke had picked it up. Anders held his breath, waiting, but Hawke appeared to be fine. Varric climbed the stairs and Isabela soon after. Hawke handed it to Varric, who looked it over.

"That has got to be worth a fortune," he said appreciatively. "Maybe there's more further in." He gestured to another door at the end of the hall.

"What's that?" came a new voice.

They turned to see Bartrand standing at the bottom of the stairs.

"An idol made of pure lyrium," Varric said. "Check it out." He lobbed it down the stairs.

Bartrand caught it easily, looking it over. He whistled, impressed. "Nice find."

Varric started toward the other door. "There might be more. We're going to check it out."

"You do that," Bartrand said.

Anders had started to follow Varric when they all heard a low, grinding noise.

"The door!" Hawke yelled.

Turning, Anders followed Varric, racing down the steps. Isabela leapt the last four and made a dive for the door, but it shut tightly.

"Bartrand!" Varric yelled, banging on the stone. "Bartrand, the door's shut behind you!"

"You always were the observant one, little brother," Bartrand said, his voice tinny through the rock. "So long, Varric."

Varric's eyes widened, his expression of disbelief. "You're going to sell your brother out for a lousy idol? Bartrand! BARTRAND!"

But Bartrand had gone, leaving Varric to kick angrily at the stone, letting out a string of curses, muttering under his breath. "I swear, when I find that son of a bitch – sorry, Mother – I will tear him limb from limb!"

Anders felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He put a hand on the wall to steady himself, a wave of dizziness washing over him. They were trapped. Hawke tried to pry the door open from the inside, but it was shut tightly.

"Move," he ordered them.

Isabela placed a hand on Anders' arm, pulling him back. Varric stepped away as well. Hawke spun his staff, knocking it against the ground once, other hand raised in the air as he pulled down a bolt of electricity. He turned his wrist, pointed his staff, and fire mixed with lightning. He lurched forward, tossing the spell hard at the door. The room shook, the chandelier swinging precariously. Bits of dust and rubble fell from the walls and ceiling. The door stayed annoyingly intact.

"Was worth a shot," Varric said with a sigh. "We'll go the other way and hope it leads us back around."

Anders held back the question that was on his tongue. _What if it doesn't?_ What if they were trapped down there? What if there was no food, no water? What if they died of starvation? It was at least another four or five days to the surface from the way they'd come. He looked at Hawke, whose expression was unreadable, to Isabela, who was chewing her lower lip, to Varric, who simply looked defeated.

"It's our best plan," Anders said, proud of himself as his voice came out strong and sure, not betraying his apprehension. "And we should move quickly."

They didn't speak much as they walked through the building. An old estate, perhaps? It was crumbling and broken in parts and only vaguely resembled a residence. Several long halls and tunnels later, a door opened into a larger cavern, identical sets of staircases on either side leading down from the ledge they stood on. It was disturbingly clean except for a large pile of rocks at the mouth of another tunnel.

"I don't think I like this," Isabela said, stepping back.

Anders felt it too, power in the air, though completely unlike the lyrium. It was something much more sinister. "Look out!" he cried, as two of the rocks threw themselves from the pile, coming right for them.

They scattered, leaping out of the way. There was a rumbling sound that started out quietly, then intensified. Anders got staggeringly to his feet to see the rocks forming humanoid creatures. Maker's breath, was there ever a dull moment? He immediately cast a shielding spell that enveloped himself and the others, a white gust of wind whirling around them as they moved to avoid being attacked. He flinched as a rock flew at him, but the spell held fast, repelling it back.

Isabela and Varric flanked the creatures, taking opposite staircases. Isabela disappeared into shadow and reappeared, too quickly for Anders to follow her with his eyes. She caught a rock creature with her boot, and it screamed in pain, a disturbing, screeching sound like nails on a slate. Hawke leapt from the ledge to the ground, moving headlong into the pack. They surrounded him at once and he slammed the end of his staff down viciously. A force wave of air rushed back from the tip, sending the creatures flying. Varric put several bolts through their makeshift limbs, causing them to explode into pebbles.

Anders hung back, watching. One of the creatures reared up, about to slam down onto Hawke's back. He pointed his staff, shooting a bolt of energy at it. It was enough to take it off its feet, and Hawke turned to unleash a fireball, consuming it, melting it until it was nothing but a pile of ash. Isabela cried out, three more of the creatures quickly swarming her. The shielding spell was fading and Anders rushed down the steps to try to get a clear shot. Varric hit one with a well-placed bolt. It shattered. He could see Isabela under the rubble, gnashing her teeth, trying to slash at the stone. Her knives seemed ineffective against them.

Hawke swung with his staff, catching one in what appeared to be its face. It flew several feet in the air and Varric took aim. The arrows he shot caught fire as Hawke increased their deadliness. Another shriek and the creature fell limply to the ground. Hawke dropped his staff, grabbing the last and hurling it from Isabela, who cried out in pain as it scraped her leg, tearing the exposed flesh. Hawke shoved it to the ground, stomping on it soundly, and Varric put one last bolt through its head. It shuddered and lay still.

Anders knelt down to Isabela, taking in her wounds. The shielding spell had aided in protecting her against the worst of it. He took her thigh gently in his hands, pressing warm healing magic to the skin, working up toward her hip. She groaned and lay back in the dirt, chest heaving.

"Remind me again why I came on this bloody stupid trip," she grumbled.

"Because you can't say no," Hawke said, kneeling down. He slid a hand under her shoulders and helped her into a sitting position.

Coming down off his adrenaline rush from battle, Anders forced himself to concentrate on healing. He didn't like the way Isabela reached up to pat Hawke's cheek, or how his hand curled around her shoulder, touching her bare skin. To be fair, his own hands were extremely close to much more sensitive areas on her. Would Hawke be jealous? He frowned, pulling back once the skin had mended.

"Oh you didn't have to stop," Isabela purred. "I thought we were just getting started."

Anders looked up, unable to keep himself from glaring at her. "We need to keep moving." He stood and helped Varric collect the salvageable arrows, ignoring Isabela's, "What's got your panties in a twist?" comment.

They walked on until they reached a staircase at the end of a hall. Rocks came together again and Varric sighed, pulling Bianca from his back once more.

"Here we go again," he muttered.

"Enough!" came a booming voice from the rock formation. It was as tall as the ogre, large boulders forming its arms and legs. Splinters of rock aligned in a parody of a rib cage. At the center of its head, a large red glowing stone gave it a cyclopean look.

"Oh good, this one talks," Isabela said, tone dripping with sarcasm.

"I will not see any more of my meals fall to you, humans," it said.

Anders shivered, prickles of Justice at the corners of his brain. _Demon,_ came the whispered thought. He knew it. He glanced at Hawke and they shared a knowing look. Power radiated from the creature, a darker and more sinister thrumming of energy than the lyrium.

"Ah, okay," Varric said. "So we won't kill any more of them as long as they don't attack us. In the meantime, you're blocking the path."

"They hunger, as do I," it breathed.

"It's a demon," Anders informed him. "It's not one of those other things. Don't listen to it."

"Well that's just swell," Varric said, cocking Bianca. "I thought this trip could do with a little more demon-killing."

"I propose an offer," the demon said, rocks crunching as it moved toward them. They took a collective step back. "I hunger, I feed from those you call rock wraiths. But there is one that impedes my progress in the next chamber. Dispose of it so I may continue. And in exchange, I will give you the way out that you so desperately seek."

"We don't make deals with demons," Hawke said viciously, staff in hand, tip already gathering energy for a strike.

"Such a pity," the demon sighed.

The ground shook and around them several more rock wraiths emerged. Anders turned on his heel, channeling energy through him as he cast a protection ward on the ground. The wraiths had them surrounded. He took a step back, feeling Hawke behind him.

"Keep them busy," Anders said over his shoulder. "I think I can banish him back to the Fade."

He felt Hawke nod and take off. Isabela was already on the move, charging at the one to break their flank while Varric shouted as he let loose with Bianca. Anders got to one knee, head bowed, fingers pressed to his forehead as the fight raged around him. He gripped his staff, concentrating both on keeping the protection glyph up and calling upon a spell he'd used once before. During his Harrowing, he had somehow managed to channel the energy necessary to both survive and push himself back out into the waking world. The demon's magic swirled around him, dark and black like a plague.

"Focus."

It was Justice's voice.

"Concentrate."

"I am."

White-blue light splintered through his skin, and only from careful months of practice could he keep control. He expended his well of energy, mana draining quickly, and continued to dig as a brilliant golden circle enveloped him. He stood slowly, the circle rising with him. There was nothing but him and Justice and the demon now. He felt Justice behind him, working his arms as he spun his staff over his head. His muscles flexed, screaming in agony as he pushed.

_Just a little more power._

"I can't!"

_A little more._

"NOW!"

With the bellowed word, he thrust his arms forward, Justice behind him and inside him. The light well enveloped the demon. It staggered, stepping back, falling. Its cries of panic turned to shrieks of pain as the light washed over it. The light broke, and the cave went silent. Anders fell to the ground, shaking, too weak to stand. The last thing he saw before he passed out were several pairs of boots running toward him.

-

When he came to, his head was pillowed on something soft. He groaned, and a vial was pressed to his lips. Cool, sweet liquid lyrium filled his mouth and he swallowed. He felt his mana return to him almost instantly, but his body was still weak and shaking. Muscles were not meant to be taxed in such a way, he realized. He opened his eyes slowly. Hawke was above him, cradling him with one arm, holding an empty vial in a fist that rested on his chest which rose and fell slowly as Anders tried to breathe.

"There you are," Hawke said softly. He tucked the empty vial into his own robes. "Thought you'd gone off with the demon."

Anders thought he was trying to sound nonchalant, but the concern in his voice was apparent. "Takes more than that to stop me," he quipped, his voice barely a whisper. He cleared his throat, wincing at the raw feeling.

"Stupid thing to do, really," Isabela said from somewhere above him. "You could've killed yourself."

"Knew what I was doing," Anders said. And he did for the most part. It wasn't every day he was called on to send a greater demon back to the Fade. Or kill it. Truth be told, he wasn't quite sure what he'd done. But it was gone and that's all that mattered. "We won, right?"

Hawke pursed his lips together, gathering Anders close. "Of a sort."

Anders allowed himself to be pulled into a sitting position, gripping onto the front of Hawke's robes. If he hadn't been so dizzy, he would've counted it a victory, touching him like that. He nodded, and Hawke helped him to his feet.

"Can you help Varric?" Hawke asked.

"Varric? Is he?"

"I'm fine, Blondie."

But the tone indicated he was not, and Anders, still holding onto Hawke, looked around slowly. Varric sat on the bottom of the steps, pants leg ripped wide, holding a poultice to his shin. He had a glassy-eyed look about him, indicating he'd likely taken elfroot to stem the pain. Stumbling, Anders crossed the distance and knelt, hands over the wound. It took a surprisingly little amount of effort to heal it, almost as if he'd forgotten that not every spell he needed to cast required an untold supply of mana.

"Ah, good as new," Varric said, standing at once.

He helped Anders back to his feet, and Hawke handed him his staff, clapping him gently on the back.

"With any luck," Hawke said, "that'll be the last of it."

"I hate it when you say shit like that," Varric said, and he picked up Bianca, but didn't holster her.

Isabela stretched, jogging lightly up the steps. "Only one way to find out, I suppose."

They followed her up, Anders grateful as Hawke kept near him. He still felt incredibly dizzy and weak from overextending himself. Sleeping for days seemed like a good idea, but getting out of this hole was the first step. The next room was quite large, stalagmites winding their way around the cave floor, some twice the height of Anders and three times as thick. Ahead, they saw another door. Crossing a clearing, Anders thought he forgot about something.

"Didn't the demon say…"

They turned around as one, watching as an enormous wraith, three times the size of the ogre, got to its feet. It looked almost the same as the hunger demon, though much, much larger in size. Rocks and boulders formed its limbs, a huge glowing red stone in the middle of its forehead.

"Oh," said Varric. "That can't be good."

Before Anders could react, Hawke grabbed him, yanking him back behind a stalagmite. "Stay back," he ordered. "Heal from a distance."

And he was gone, leaving Anders' protests to hang in the air. He tried to call upon Justice, to double his power, to aid in this fight, but there was nothing. His mana well might have been replenished, but he was still so tired. Leaning against the rock and his staff alike, he inched out from behind to keep an eye on his friends.

Isabela was keeping it distracted, darting here and there, throwing knives at its eye while Varric and Hawke flanked it. Something felt wrong though. Anders looked down, feeling a tug, a pull of energy. Pebbles at his feet began rolling toward the wraith, slow at first, then with intense speed.

"GET AWAY!" he screamed over the din of the fighting, the roar of the creature.

The wraith lifted up off the ground, surrounded by a halo of brilliant red light. Anders only had time to see Isabela leap away before he turned, his back to the stalagmite. In a dazzling burst of light and sound, a wave of energy was let loose, knocking Anders forward despite his cover behind the rock. He dropped to a knee, losing his balance as the cave seemed to tip forward. Then the wraith was screaming again and he heard Varric shouting for help.

Anders turned. Isabela had leapt onto its back and while it was reared up, Varric had emptied his crossbow. Arrows decorated the wraith's surface, knocking chunks of it off. His friends were quickly losing the fight. The wraith twisted, lurching left, then right. It spun violently and Isabela had to use both hands to hang on. Anders took a breath, lifting both staff and free hand upward to channel the energy he called down.

A crackle of lightning appeared from the rock ceiling, high above. The atmospheric pressure dropped. Through the dust and dark he saw Isabela leap from the wraith. Separating his hands, he willed the heavens to open. A white-hot bolt of lightning shot through the cavern, catching the wraith directly in its chest. It screamed. Anders felt the power surge inside him, a heat running through his muscles from his back, into his arms. He dropped his staff, palms out as the flames gathered, pulling them toward his chest. He breathed more magical power into the fiery attack and unleashed the mighty spell with a cry.

The flames enveloped the wraith and it flailed wildly, trying to escape its burning prison. Anders realized almost too late that it was heading for him. He stumbled back and fell. From his right, Isabela leapt at him, grabbing the front of his robes and using her momentum to pull him from the line of fire. They rolled several feet out of the way as the wraith fell where Anders was just seconds before. He raised his head from his supine position, then let it drop with a sigh. Isabela was lying on top of him, breathing heavily, a cut on her forehead just above her eye. He reached up unthinkingly and let a wash of blue energy heal it.

"You're handy to have in a fight," she said, trying to catch her breath.

He sat up gingerly and she moved back, straddling his thighs. "Varric?"

"Here. I'm fine," Varric grunted. "Bianca's a little worse for wear, but she'll be okay."

Anders pushed Isabela back off him and he stood, stumbling a bit as he moved toward the wraith. In the rubble he saw the aurum staff, shining brightly, not a scratch on it. He pulled it from the mess and quickly cast around.

"Hawke?" he called.

When there was no answer, he tried not to panic. He lit the end of his staff, a bright white light filling the cavern. Several spiders on the wall skittered away, obviously not wanting any part of what they'd just been witness to.

"Hawke!" he yelled again.

They began searching the rubble in earnest. Anders kicked away rocks, pushed them back with the end of his staff, calling Hawke's name.

"Anders, here!" Varric shouted from across the cave.

Anders turned and sprinted the length, stopping as he saw what Varric did. Hawke lay, propped against the cave wall, his body a mess of bruises and blood. A long, wicked looking shard of stone protruded from his right shoulder, jutting out from the cave wall. A few inches to the other side and it would have caught him through the throat, likely killing him. Anders bit back the fury and alarm he felt and knelt down. He was Hawke's only hope now.

"Help me," he said to Varric, taking Hawke's right arm.

Varric took the other side and they carefully wrenched him away from the wall. Hawke jerked, eyes fluttering open, though unseeing, before he fell unconscious again. They laid him out gently and Anders closed his eyes. He was back in his clinic. They weren't miles underground anymore. He felt calm, at peace. The serene feeling he always got whenever he healed. Warm blue light filled the area as his hands worked, knitting together muscle, repairing bone. He moved from Hawke's chest to his arms, down his legs. The left ankle was broken and twisted. Anders was glad Hawke was unconscious as he healed that.

When it was over, his mana was depleted once again. All that was left were superficial cuts, but he couldn't draw the energy that was needed. Instead, he moved, pulling Hawke's head and shoulders into his lap, tapping him on the cheek gently.

"Going to need to do it a bit harder than that, Blondie," Varric said. "Or just let him sleep for now."

Anders let out a half-laugh, half-sob. He wiped away the tears on his cheeks, only then aware that he'd been crying, and was thankful that Varric had the courtesy not to point it out. Bringing his hand back, he smacked Hawke awake.

"Huh?" Hawke muttered, eyes flicking open.

"Lyrium?"

"In my pocket."

Only because of Hawke's groggy state it sounded like 'inmuhpeggit.'

Anders reached inside Hawke's pocket to pull out two vials of lyrium. The first he opened and held to Hawke's lips, watching as he drank. A little rivulet of blue escaped the corner of his mouth. Before it could disappear into his beard, Anders caught it with his thumb. Unthinkingly, he brought it to his own mouth, tasting the lyrium and also, he thought, Hawke. He drank the other and tucked the empty vials into his own coat.

"We have to stop meeting like this," Hawke mumbled, looking up at him.

"You should learn to duck," Anders laughed.

"You should," Hawke countered, but with no real conviction. "Help me up."

Anders brought him to a sitting position, kneeling beside him, one hand on his back. Hawke groaned, rolling his shoulders and head.

"Hell of a fight," he said. "Shame I was unconscious for most of it."

"It wasn't all that exciting," Anders said jokingly. "Ancient rock monsters coming to life, expelling magical energies hard enough to knock a man into a wall. Fire and lightning to roast it. All in a day's work."

Hawke slung an arm around Anders' shoulder and they leaned against one another, getting to their feet shakily. Anders wrapped both arms around Hawke's waist for balance.

"Reminds me of the nights I spend getting drunk at the Hanged Man," Hawke said airily. "Varric?"

Anders looked around. Varric and Isabela were near the door, looking at something just out of sight. He helped Hawke move a few steps, then a few more. Hawke pulled away slowly, keeping a hand on Anders' shoulder for balance, then managed on his own. Anders missed it immediately, but breathed in relief that Hawke was able to walk without support. He'd be okay. He followed, and stopped when he saw what they were staring at.

"Holy Andraste," he breathed. "What do you make of that?"

Varric ran a hand back through his hair. "Vault. Has to be."

"So shiny," Isabela said reverently.

Piles of gold, iron chests full of treasure, jewelry, stacks of swords and other weapons, and a pile of shields all laid out before them. Anders could barely make out the back of the vault in the dim light.

"I can't wait to see the look on Bartrand's face. Right after I punch it in," Varric added.

Hawke moved forward, opening a much smaller, wooden box that seemed out of place. Inside, a rusty iron key and a pile of papers. He handed both to Varric, who turned the papers this way and that.

"Maps," he said finally. "A way to the surface. And that key," he said, glancing to the door behind them. "Let's hope it fits."

Isabela took it and they all held their breath as she turned it. The relief when it clicked was palpable, and the door swung open easily. Outside, a main highway of the Deep Roads. Varric consulted the map.

"Maybe a week to the surface if we're unlucky."

"And if we're lucky?" Hawke asked, though his tone indicated he knew they wouldn't be.

Varric looked up at him. "We stumble on Bartrand's corpse on the way."

Hawke shook his head, but chuckled.

They gathered what they could from the vault, Varric assuring them he would send others down to retrieve what was left behind. Anders found he didn't much care; riches were nice, but he'd be happy to leave the Deep Roads with his life. If he never had to travel down this far again, it would be too soon.


	10. Chapter 10

They reached the surface five days later, surviving on deepstalker meat from a pack they hunted and slaughtered. The river Anders had seen did in fact open to a lake, but it was sadly devoid of fish. The water was cool and clean though. They filled their canteens and cleaned up as best they could in hopes of making the remaining trek a bit more bearable. Isabela and Varric insisted on dragging along two chests full to bursting with gold. When they finally stepped outside, it was mid-morning and Anders immediately raised his face to the sun, shoulders relaxing. He felt like it was the first time he could breathe properly in weeks, the late summer breeze playing through his hair.

"Oh messeres!"

He looked down to see Bodahn and Sandal come running up.

"Bodahn?" Varric asked, confused.

"Your brother, messere, he said that you perished! Killed by darkspawn!" Bodahn said in a rush, out of breath. "But Sandal told me that he'd seen you just a few minutes before that. We went back to the door and it was sealed shut. I thought there was some funny business going on so when we got back to Kirkwall, I said, 'Sandal, my boy, something's not right.'."

"Not right," Sandal agreed.

Anders looked at Hawke, who had his arms crossed, eyebrow raised.

"So we came back," Bodahn continued quickly. "It's only been three days past that we arrived but we've been out here all hours of the day and night. We couldn't just leave you, not after what you've done for my boy."

Anders was glad when no one corrected Bodahn regarding who was responsible for Sandal's safety. 

"What happened to my brother?" Varric asked, nearly growling.

"He took a boat first thing getting back with several of the others. There's whisperings that the Merchant's Guild isn't too happy with him for neglecting his duties."

Varric pinched the bridge of his nose, fingers of his other hand twitching slightly. It was almost a full minute before he responded, the silence growing uncomfortable. "All right," he said finally. "Bodahn, can you help us with this?" He gestured to the crates. "Once we get back to Kirkwall I'll get this all sorted out."

Bodahn and Sandal lifted the crates, used to carrying larger, heavier boxes of wares. Bodahn chatted as they walked, and Anders was glad he didn't have to make conversation. He would be happy to see his clinic, lumpy, uncomfortable cot and all. No more adventures, he thought, not for a long, long time. They pressed well into the night, none of them even considering stopping. By the time they entered the gates and stumbled down to Lowtown, the moon was hanging high in the night sky. Varric insisted they all stay at the Hanged Man. Anders was about to protest, but Hawke simply pulled on his arm, tugging him inside.

"Not looking forward to seeing Carver and Mother just yet," he grumbled by way of explanation.

"I am serious need of a bath," Isabela commented, holding her arms out and inspecting herself.

They were all covered in layers of dirt and grime, speckled with blood. Hawke's robes were ripped and in desperate need of mending. Varric gave instruction to Bodahn and Sandal where to place the treasures and other various things, then approached the barman.

"Four steaming hot tubs with four bowls of your finest stew and a bottomless pitcher of ale," he said, plunking a leather pouch on the bar.

The barman scowled and picked up the pouch, expression changing immediately as he opened it. His eyes were as wide as saucers when he said, "Right away, messere!"

Varric's suite was large, but with four tubs dragged in, it quickly became cramped. Isabela, lacking all modesty, barely waited for the door to shut before starting to strip. Beside him, Varric was doing the same, and even Hawke moved to undress. Anders felt his heart beating through his chest and he dropped his eyes.

"Go on, Blondie. You don't have anything we haven't seen. Unless that spirit in your head gives you a third nipple or something freaky," Varric laughed.

Anders fumbled with the buckles to his coat, keeping his eyes averted as he stripped, and quickly sank into the tub, glad when the milky, lavender scented water covered him up. He was reminded of the communal baths in the Circle. However, when the hot water washed over him, his apprehension vanished, along the aches in his muscles.

"Ugh, this is heavenly," Isabela moaned. "I never want to see another cave for as long as I live."

No one said much of anything as they scoured off dirt and grime, stopping only to make noises of satisfaction as they ate or tipped back another ale. Anders ducked under the water and scrubbed at his hair using the last of the soap. He peered through the steam in the room, from Isabela who sat with her head back, the tops of her breasts just above the water. He dragged his eyes away from her to look at Varric, who was tucking into another bowl of stew. Apprehensively, he looked to his right to Hawke.

Hawke was looking at him.

He felt his face grow slightly warmer, hoping he could blame it on the heat of the bath. It was impossible to tell what Hawke was thinking behind those steely green eyes. He nodded slightly at Anders and then sunk down, head against the back of the tub, arms resting on the sides. Anders swallowed, eyes raking down his form, from the dark hair on his chest that thinned as it dusted down his midline. The water level sat just above his navel, but Anders could imagine the trail continuing down, lower. 

Varric chuckled, and Anders quickly looked away.

"What's so funny?" Isabela asked, looking over at him.

Varric shook his head, then tipped a wink to Anders. Anders slipped under the water again, trying to hide his embarrassment at having been caught staring.

Half an hour or so later he found himself wrapped in a soft robe, sitting around Varric's table, drinking ale and losing spectacularly at cards to the rest of them. Edwina the waitress had ordered the removal of the tubs and promised she'd get their things laundered and mended. Until then it seemed, they were stuck in Varric's suite, playing diamondback and reliving tales that did not involve the Deep Roads in order to pass the time.

"So I said," Isabela continued through her giggling, "'that's not his dagger'."

Varric burst into laughter. "Oh… I wish I'd seen the look on their faces."

"It was rather priceless," she agreed, grinning.

"What about you, Blondie?" Varric asked, wiping a tear. "Any good stories?"

Anders shook his head, feeling a buzz that thankfully had nothing to do with lyrium or demons or darkspawn. "All my stories are terribly boring in comparison to tales of piracy and smuggling on the high seas."

"What about Ferelden?" Varric prompted. "I've never been there."

"It's a muddy land full of dog shit and Templars," Anders said. While Ferelden was home, he had less than fond memories of it.

"Well what about your time with the Wardens?" he pressed.

Anders shook his head again. "We just experienced probably the worst example of why you wouldn't want to be a Warden, and we didn't even come across any living darkspawn." Was he slurring his words?

"I can tell you about Ferelden," Hawke said, tossing down a card to pick up another. "It's cold. And wet."

"Oh I don't know," Isabela added. "Some nights could be particularly warm." She winked at Anders, who ignored her.

"I imagine it's different in the cities," Hawke agreed. He took a sip of ale before continuing. "But the villages were all quiet, little places. Everyone pitched in to help one another on the farms. Trade was easy. The only thing we needed to worry about was the blasted Templars."

"You were lucky," Anders said quietly. "Even though you had to run from them. You were free your whole life."

Isabela sighed, tossing her cards down and draining her mug. "If you're going to get all maudlin on me, I'm going to bed." She grinned at Hawke. "You know where my room is if you want to… visit. Thanks Varric," she added, raising a hand as she left.

Anders looked at Hawke, who was watching Isabela leave, eyes quite obviously on her rear. He sighed, feeling tired and defeated and approaching drunkenness, despite Justice's normal insistence against imbibing to this point. Running a hand through his still damp hair, he tossed his cards down as well.

"Might as well get some sleep," Hawke agreed. He took one last sip from his mug before standing, clapping Varric on the back.

Anders stood a little took quickly, nearly falling over. Hawke grabbed him by the arm.

"Easy," he said.

Anders leaned against him. All right, perhaps he was a little bit more than drunk. The stew was too delicious, the ale too rich. After weeks of ration bars, dried fruit and deepstalker meat, he had overindulged. And it was worth it too, he thought, as Hawke guided him from Varric's suite. Anders hoped he said good night to Varric. He'd have to remember to thank him in the morning. The trip to his room was a blur, all he could feel were Hawke's hands on him, leading him. He tumbled onto a soft mattress, pulling Hawke down as he fell.

"That's nice," Hawke said with a laugh. "Go to sleep, you're drunk."

Anders was confused; had he said something to merit that response? But he was, in fact, rather drunk. The bed was soft, the blankets warm, and someone had lit a crackling fire. He closed his eyes and almost instantly fell asleep.

-

Instinct kicked in at the same time consciousness did. He didn't wait for the throbbing pain behind his eyes to start or the nausea to build. The warm tingle of the healing spell moved through him, leaving behind only the grogginess that came with heavy sleep. Sitting up slowly, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he waited for the sleep amnesia to clear. Waking up every night or day in the Deep Roads for the last two weeks, he half-expected to look around and see rocks and stone and nothing but torchlight. The sun streamed through the high window, and he felt its warmth spread along with the relief in the knowledge that he was free of that place.

A groan from across the room turned his head and he looked over. Hawke was lying, twisted in sheets around his lower half. Anders raised a hand, not daring himself to go over to touch him to perform the spell. A blue light flew from his fingertips and attached itself to Hawke before sinking beneath his skin. Immediately, the sounds of pain stopped and Hawke opened his eyes.

"The hell did Varric make me drink last night," he grumbled, yawning and sitting up. "Tastes like vinegar in my mouth."

"Probably something more vile," Anders agreed. He could taste it as well. Still better than the ration bars, he reasoned. He stood, retying his robes as he cast around. In the middle of the room on a table was a pile of clothing. His staff leaned against it, next to Hawke's. Varric or Edwina had obviously seen to it that they were taken care of. It was an odd feeling, having someone else to tend to his clothing and things. He took a few unsteady steps and picked up the pile, turning his back to Hawke to dress.

"Shouldn't be more than a few weeks," Hawke said, and Anders could hear him dressing as well. "All that we found down there to be brought back up. Once it's divvyed and sold, you can move out of the clinic into somewhere better."

Anders scoffed. "No I couldn't. I'm still an apostate. No one would rent to me. And Meredith would hunt me down, coin or no."

"You could use my name," Hawke suggested. "My mother's an Amell. She's petitioning the Viscount to get her estate back. I'm betting she already has the deed in her pocket and she's just waiting for me to come back. She's resourceful that way."

"I'll be fine," Anders said, shrugging on his coat. He examined the feather pauldrons, pleased that they seemed unruffled. Adjusting the buckles, he turned around.

Hawke was tying his belt, which still had one of Anders' feathers weaved into it. His dark red sleeveless robes had been cleaned though the fabric looked a little more threadbare, stitched up with black silk in places. Hawke noticed Anders' look and shrugged.

"Maybe when I'm a rich somebody in Hightown, I'll be able to afford a personal tailor."

"It suits you."

"Ah, the thin, fraying, holey fabric look that screams, 'I'm an apostate Fereldan refugee!' Here I thought it was a little too obvious."

Despite himself, Anders smiled. He combed out his hair the best he could and tied it back. As he went to take up his staff, he stopped, still feeling Hawke's eyes on him.

"Hm?"

Hawke shook his head. "I was just thinking." He leaned against the bedpost, arms crossed, looking at Anders appraisingly. "Back in the Deep Roads. The spell you used to get rid of that hunger demon."

"Ah." Anders wondered if this would come up. They hadn't talked much on their way out, not wanting to expend too much energy, just wanting to break the surface as quickly as possible. He sank back down onto his mattress. "What about it?"

"Well," Hawke said, drawing out the word. "It's not anything standard that I've seen. Granted, I've only had my father and his books to learn from. After all, you can't just walk into a library or book store and pick up tomes of powerful magic. Not without drawing some attention."

Anders rocked back and forth a little, remembering his Harrowing, his first encounter with a greater demon. "I had Justice to help me this time. I don't remember a lot of it. He sort of… takes over. Like I'm a passenger and he takes the reigns. It's unnerving to be a bystander in your own body. I really don't like it when he comes out but I trust him. Mostly."

"Mostly?"

"I told you about him, that first night. How he's changed."

Hawke nodded and crossed the room, coming to sit next to Anders. "Right. You said he wasn't like himself anymore."

Anders gripped the bed, staring at the floor, shoulders slumped. "Sometimes it's him. I can feel him, I think. Or maybe it's just my own thoughts. We're one person except when he takes over entirely. Then, I suppose we're still one person, I just can't control myself. As long as it's something like in the Deep Roads, fighting against a demon, I can stay in control for the most part. Demons are dangerous, but they don't have control over their nature. They're born or created to fulfill a certain purpose." He remembered his training from the Circle, asking if a demon could change its nature, being laughed at by the other apprentices. Karl bringing him into his room, discussing the nature of demons and spirits late into the night. He remembered talking to Justice, the long philosophical conversations they had while in the Deep Roads together. "Their natures are inherent. But man is different. He's not born evil. He's not born to feel only rage or desire or hunger as a demon is. It's our choices who make us what we are. You cannot blame a demon for doing what it does any more than you can blame a darkspawn."

"I can blame the darkspawn for quite a bit," Hawke growled.

Anders looked up at him. "No, you misunderstand me. Darkspawn, they're a hive mind. They can't think like you and I do." He swallowed back a wave of nausea, trying not to think about the taint inside his own blood. The taint that meant he too would eventually experience the pull of that collective thought. "They follow an instinct that drags them down to find an Old God and then corrupt it with their taint, and archdemons are born." He tried not to think of the Architect, of the emissaries that could talk and think. It was evolution, raw and dirty. He wouldn't think about it, not right now. "So," he continued, back to his original point, "when I see a demon, I don't feel that anger. Justice doesn't feel that anger. He knows that the demon must be killed or banished or whatever and I can… use him."

"Like a spell in a way," Hawke ventured.

"Somewhat. He gives me an extra reserve of power but at great cost. It leaves me weak. I don't like using him in that way. I… don't like using him in any way, to be honest. That's not why I offered myself to him. I just wanted to help…" He trailed off, looking away again.

Hawke's hand came over his own, and Anders smiled, letting their fingers twine together on the bed. He took a breath and continued.

"But when I see Templars." He closed his eyes, holding onto the feeling of Hawke's hand, using it as an anchor. "I get angry. Templars are just men who've made a choice. They've made a decision. They're not like demons who go on blind instinct, and that's when it gets difficult to control Justice. That's when he… changes. The Templars, they don't see mages as people. They don't look at us and see someone's son. Someone's lover. We're just… dangerous shells, tempting vessels for demons who need to be locked up for our own good. But it's not right." He looked back up at Hawke, whose eyes were soft, understanding. Anders felt a flood of relief, of gratitude wash through him. No one else understood, it seemed. But Hawke did. "For all the talk about how dangerous demons are," Anders said, his voice barely above a whisper, "more Circle mages die by their own hands than through any other means. They're saving us only so we can destroy ourselves."

Hawke reached up, brushing back a lock of Anders' hair that had slipped from the tie. The gesture was intensely intimate, and Anders felt a surge of electricity from Hawke's fingertips against his cheek. He leaned against it, reaching up, taking his hand.

"I've never met anyone like you," Anders whispered. "Even other apostates didn't seem to want to get involved. Once you're free of the Circle, I guess it's easy to forget there are others you left behind, others who suffer. But I can't. Even if I wanted to, now with Justice, I can't."

His shoulders were shaking and he closed his eyes. Hawke drew him into a hug and he felt the scratch of his friend's beard on his forehead as Hawke placed a kiss to his hairline. He didn't know how long he stayed there in Hawke's embrace, hands against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. It was a relief at the same time it was terrifying to have someone like Hawke who understood, who didn't laugh at him, who didn't tell him to give up because it was useless, to simply be happy because he had his freedom. He slowly calmed.

"I'm sorry," he said, pulling back. "You must think I'm…"

"I think you're right," Hawke said in his strong, even tone. "I've seen it. Actually… I've seen it amongst Templars."

Anders sat back a little further to look at him. "What do you mean?"

"Blood mages forcing Templars to attach themselves to demons," Hawke continued. "It's happened more than once. But there was a lad called Wilmod who was taken. We had to… stop him. They tried to take another one – Keran. He's on probation while they watch to make sure he's not going to turn into an abomination. If you come with me, we can talk to Thrask. See if there's anything we can do to help."

"Help Templars?" Anders scoffed.

Hawke shook his head. "Think of the bigger picture. Maleficarum take Templars and turn them into abominations. They send them back to the Order. Knight-Commander Meredith finds out, do you honestly think she's going to blame blood mage apostates? Who will suffer truly?"

Anders frowned. "The mages that are in the Circle already. The ones she can control. She'll place the blame on them whether they did it or not."

"Exactly. We're on the outside, Anders, we're in a position to help. Come with me to talk to Thrask."

Anders nodded. As much as he hated the thought of returning to the Gallows, he felt safer with Hawke. And regardless, he needed to speak with Thrask and Alain. The trip over would allow him that chance.

"I want to check in with everyone first and then stop to see Mother before we go," Hawke said, standing. "Did you want to come?"

"Who is everyone?" Anders asked, standing as well.

They gathered their staves and headed down the hall to Varric's suite.

"Fenris," Hawke said, ignoring the face Anders made. "Merrill. And Aveline, a friend of mine who escaped the Blight in Ferelden with us. It won't take long."

"I should check on my clinic," Anders said, less out of desire to look in on his still likely boarded up residence and more out of not wanting to be subjected to Fenris's derision. "And I need to speak to a few of my contacts."

"Of course."

Anders hadn't imagined it that time. There was definitely a note of disappointment in Hawke's tone. "But," he added, "I'll come to your uncle's house in about an hour or two? Then we can see Thrask together."

Hawke nodded, and pushed the door to Varric's suite open. "Sure."

They said their good mornings and their goodbyes to Varric, who assured them he'd get their payments settled soon. He offered them breakfast which they declined, and went their separate ways once outside the Hanged Man. Feeling better than he had in a while, Anders followed the path to Lirene's shop. He opened the door, dug inside his robes and tossed two sovereigns into the donation box. At the very least, the Deep Roads expedition was good for that.

"Hello, sweetheart!"

Lirene waved at him. He tried to ignore the awed looks of the people in line. Many knew his face, but to them he was their healer. A beacon of hope in their harsh lives in a foreign city. Their stares made him uncomfortable.

"All right, all right," Lirene said, making a shooing gesture at them, as they started to crowd him.

"I don't mind," Anders said gently, as a woman approached him in tears.

He spent the hour healing their ills, mending broken bones that had been inexpertly wrapped. In comparison, despite their reverent looks and overwhelming thanks, he much preferred this to anything he'd gone through in the past two weeks. The shop emptied out slowly and Lirene brought him a cup of tea. He accepted it gratefully, slumping into a seat.

"So how was it?" she asked, sitting across from him.

He hadn't given her the details, merely said he was leaving for a time. "It was nice to get out," he said noncommittally. "I tried to track down that woman you told me about," he prompted, quickly changing the subject.

"Mm? Oh!" Lirene said, remembering. "Selby. She's usually near the docks around dusk. I can send my boy down to talk to her if you have a message."

"Just that I'd like to talk to her some time, if she can spare it. But I'll be by the docks in a bit. I promised I'd meet a friend soon."

"A friend?" Lirene asked. "Not that bearded barbarian."

Anders couldn't help but laugh, hearing Hawke described in such a way. It was accurate, or as accurate a first impression could be with Hawke. He found that the more he grew to know him, the less barbarian he was. Aggressive, direct, and blunt. But he was a good man.

"Wait," Lirene said. "You didn't go with him, did you? Down the Deep Roads? You said he was going."

"I'd rather not discuss that," Anders said conciliatorily. "It should pay off in the end. It was all worth it."

She leaned forward, touching his knee. "Love, you need to be careful with him. Mark my words, he'll get you killed."

Anders frowned. "I… think I should go." He stood, placing his teacup on the counter. "I don't mean to be rude but I need to check on the clinic and stock up on a few things before meeting Hawke."

Lirene sighed and eyed him with a knowing look. Damn her shrewdness. Were his feelings for Hawke that obvious? Or was she just looking out for him in a motherly capacity? She'd seen him heal, seen him overtax himself with his patients, and kept his secrets. It was impossible to discern from where her worry came. But thankfully she said nothing, and he returned the hug she offered.

"Take care of yourself," she intoned, speaking slowly as if he wouldn't be able to understand her otherwise. "I mean it."

Anders forced a mirthless laugh. "Trust me. I'm more in danger of being found by Templars than I am of Hawke," he assured her.

He left before she could say anything else. Shaken a bit, he decided that he'd best avoid her for a while. Or perhaps he could convince Hawke to come by to meet her again and assure her that Hawke wasn't the type of person she thought he was. Then he shook his head. What did it matter what Lirene or anyone else thought of Hawke? He didn't need to seek others' approvals for who he spent time with, matronly concern or not.

Still, there was a feeling in the back of his mind as he descended into Darktown. Was Hawke becoming a distraction from his main goal? He didn't think so. The nagging voice pulled at him.

_You're not focused on the cause. You can't stop thinking about him. He is a distraction._

Anders scowled and removed a key from his pocket, carefully stepping over the tripwire as he let himself into his clinic. He closed the door and locked it, looking around. Varric's men had outdone themselves. The floor had been cleaned of debris, though there was no helping the fact that it was still made from dirt. Beds with actual mattresses – lumpy though they were – lined up against one wall while two operating tables made of metal stood in the middle. At the far end, a large cupboard with a lock housing all his ingredients for potions and poultices. Off to the corner was his own office area, makeshift walls up to give him privacy. A wooden desk, chair, cot with a comfortable bedroll and pillow and an oil lamp. 

It felt more like a home. While he was happy for it, it also gave him pause. Did this mean that Kirkwall was his home now? It felt odd, having a more permanent place even though Ferelden was still there, waiting for him. The Blight had ended, he could go back. But the mages of Kirkwall needed him. His friends needed him. There would be time to think about a more permanent place once the issues in Kirkwall were resolved. Once the Circle mages were liberated. Or the Circle dissolved entirely. But he knew that was wishful thinking. 

With a sigh, he looked over his papers, organizing his desk though to no real end. He was simply dragging his feet, waiting until it wasn't obvious how eager he was to return to Hawke's side. Showing up at his residence before him might seem a bit pathetic. Restocking his pouch with a few lyrium potions, he left his clinic, locking it up behind him. In Lowtown, he stopped by the market stall Hawke had brought him to previously for a quick lunch, and then made his way to the small apartment down the road. He hung back, wondering if Hawke had made his stops yet, and startled to see him barreling out of the door, looking upset.

"Hawke!" he called.

Hawke looked up, eyes blazing with anger. "Good, you're here," he said through gritted teeth. "Come with me."

And he stalked away. Anders turned on his heel and hurried after, confused. What had happened in the span of an hour or so to turn Hawke's mood around so completely? He jogged slightly to match his friend's pace, and by the time they reached the docks, they were in a full sprint.

"Hawke!" he gasped. "Wait, what-"

Hawke dropped some gold into a ferryman's hand. "Gallows. Quickly."

He climbed into the boat, then looked up at Anders, gesturing impatiently. Anders scrambled in and they were off.

"Mind telling me why we're racing off to the Gallows in the middle of the afternoon?" Anders asked, annoyed and little more than apprehensive.

"Carver," he growled.

"What's your brother got to do w-" He stopped mid-sentence.

They were going to the Gallows. Only Templars and mages were housed in the Gallows. And seeing as how Carver definitely wasn't in the latter category…

"He didn't."

"He did," Hawke said.

"Hawke, while I think I understand how you feel, storming into the Gallows to confront him really isn't-"

But Hawke had hopped off the boat before it docked, and was racing up the steps to the courtyard. Anders followed with much less enthusiasm, asking the ferryman nicely to wait for them. He hesitated just inside the gate, staying to the shadows as Hawke jogged across the courtyard to a Templar who turned to look at him. Anders glanced around quickly. The last time they were there, the yard was almost empty. But now mages and Templars alike were milling around, recruits standing in tight groups, talking, watching the apprentices. He was reminded fiercely of the Circle in Ferelden where you couldn't turn a corner without having a steely eye on you. He approached with trepidation.

"I am sorry, serah," the Templar was saying, and the voice sounded familiar.

"I don't care if you're sorry, I want to see my brother," Hawke demanded.

The Templar was tall, almost taller than Anders, and he looked down at Hawke, who was glaring. If looks could kill, the entire population of the Gallows would be in ash. Anders hesitated, but came to a stop a few feet behind Hawke. The Templar looked up, and Anders gasped.

_No._

Cullen. Ser Cullen, he supposed. No, not just that, Knight-Captain Cullen, if he remembered correctly. The uniform denoted his officer status. Cullen's eyes locked on his and Anders thought there was a flash of recognition.

"My brother, _Ser_ ," Hawke growled.

Cullen looked back down to Hawke, frowning. "My apologies, serah, but recruits cannot have visitors until they undergo their vows. You may speak with him after the vigil, on a visiting day. Now, if you have no more business here-" He stepped forward, reaching out to take Hawke by the arm.

Hawke moved fast and Anders felt a breath of magic - _idiot!_ \- as he grabbed Cullen's outstretched hand, twisting his arm. He hooked a leg behind Cullen's knee and brought him to the ground. Several other Templars, seeing their Captain down, came running. Anders reacted instinctively, yanking on Hawke's arm, causing him to release Cullen, who stood at once, drawing his sword, holding a hand up to his fellows as he got back to his feet, face red with embarrassment.

"It's all right," he called. "Back to your posts."

They hesitated, but dared not disobey a direct order. Anders kept hold on Hawke's arm, keeping him back. Cullen cleared his throat, sword held loosely at his side. It was a subtle intimidation tactic. Unfortunately for Cullen, Hawke wasn't cowed. He stood, shoulders squared, fists clenched.

"Look, Hawke," Cullen said, and Anders was startled to hear the familiarity, "I appreciate the help you gave with Wilmod and Keran. I promise you that Carver is in good hands. You should go now. You and your… friend," he said, looking to Anders.

_He remembers,_ Anders thought. Of course he did. Cullen was on the docks the afternoon he made his first escape attempt. And he was there for the fourth one where Anders pretended to be an affirmed brother, leaving with the rest of them. And if Anders remembered correctly, the eighth as well, when he'd hidden away in a cabbage cart. Cullen had grown up, taller and more tanned. The sunshine of Kirkwall seemed to suit him, bleaching his ridiculous curly hair. He even grew into that stupid goatee a bit.

Hawke glanced back at Anders, then stepped to the side, back into Cullen's eye line, blocking Anders from view. "Is that a threat?"

"Not at all," Cullen stated plainly. "You've done Kirkwall several favors and we appreciate it. Your brother wouldn't want you arrested for attacking a Templar, would he? This is a good thing, you'll see in the end. Now, please, don't make me put you in chains."

Hawke was about to say something, likely regarding where Cullen could stick his chains, but Anders dug his fingernails into his friend's arm. Perhaps a bit of pain would remind him where they were, who they were talking to, and the problems that would arise with any smart-ass replies or more violence. Hawke gritted his teeth but turned away and stalked over to a merchant. Anders gave Cullen one last backwards glance. The Knight-Captain was looking at him curiously, in an appraising way that Anders did not like at all.

"Tell Thrask to meet me in the Hanged Man," Hawke told the weaponsmithy. He palmed the man a sovereign with the shake of his hand.

"Yes, serah, of course we can have that exported for you."

Hawke glanced up at Anders, chest still heaving, the anger radiating from him almost palpable. "Let's go."

It was a command Anders was happy to follow, and they sat in silence the rest of the way back. It wasn't until they were climbing the stairs of the docks into Lowtown that Anders reached out, touching his shoulder.

"Don't," Hawke said, but it was without anger.

Anders frowned, and gripped his shoulder anyway. "Talk to me."

Hawke sighed and leaned against the wall, resting his head against the tan rock. People milled about, glancing at them as they passed, dockworkers heading down for a shipment or shoppers heading up on their way to the Lowtown market. Anders kept his eyes on Hawke, who was looking down the stairs, into the thoroughfare, across the bay at the Gallows.

"He's an idiot. A stupid, bloody fool who's going to end up getting himself killed or worse."

It wasn't the reaction Anders had been expecting. The rage, yes. But he thought it would be more for betrayal than anything else. This concern was confusing, though perhaps not altogether unpredictable.

"When he ran off to join Cailan's army, Mother was heartbroken. It was just me and her at that point. I had to leave her with our neighbor. Barlin." He shook his head. "That was the best protection I could offer her while I chased down my fool brother. He was just a recruit in the army. He never saw any real action. Good thing, too, considering what happened at Ostagar." Hawke frowned. "I thought leaving him here was for the best. What if he got hurt down there? What if he died or…"

"Contracted the taint?" Anders said softly.

"I saw it happen. Not just to people in my village, but Aveline's husband Wesley. He got sick, and it came on so fast. We had to leave him behind. She still won't talk about it." He paused, remembering. "I put the knife through his heart myself. I don't think she'll ever forgive me for that."

"You did a good thing," Anders said earnestly. "The taint is a… it's a horrible thing. It corrupts you from the inside, changes you."

Hawke looked at him a moment, then nodded. "Grey Warden. Sometimes I forget."

"Sometimes I wish I could," Anders said with a sigh.

"Sorry," Hawke said, wincing.

Anders shook his head. "Don't. It's not something I like being reminded of anyway. But… Carver," he prompted gently.

"Mother's upset. It's Father's fault for naming him after a bloody Templar, good man or not. I expect he thinks he's trying to live up to his namesake. Or he's doing it out of spite. If that's the reason…" he said, glancing back to the Gallows.

Anders took him carefully by the shoulders. "You'll get to confront him. But provoking the Knight-Captain is not the way to do it."

Hawke turned his attention back to Anders once more. "Do you know him?"

"He… was in the Fereldan Circle when I was an apprentice. He was at my Harrowing."

Hawke frowned. "Sorry, that probably puts you in a difficult position."

"I didn't know he was here," Anders said with a shrug. It wasn't truly a lie, and he couldn't fully blame Hawke. "He didn't seem inclined to arrest either one of us, even if you did embarrass him in a courtyard full of his underlings."

Hawke laughed, and Anders grinned, stepping back. "I suppose that wasn't the smartest thing to do," he agreed. "I helped him a month or two ago. I never performed spells in front of him, so he might have concerns but no real proof. And I think Thrask's keeping it under wraps as well."

"Good."

"Bah," Hawke grunted. "Come on. I need to talk to Varric about this." He pushed away from the wall and led the way back toward the Hanged Man. "Hopefully in another month we'll have the money for the estate. Then Carver can be jealous that we're in Hightown and he's stuck emptying the Knight-Captain's chamberpot."

Anders chuckled at the very amusing visual, and followed Hawke down the alley.


	11. Chapter 11

Selby was an exceptional woman, Anders learned upon their first encounter. Nervous at meeting another potential ally, he tried to break the ice by complimenting her outfit, and made small talk about the weather. She saw immediately through his charm and demanded at once that he drop the act.

"My skirts are in rags, it's rained three days in a row, and the harbor stinks of sewage. Are you Lirene's man? I have no time for foolishness."

Startled at the brusqueness, he stammered that he was, indeed, "Lirene's man". She brought him into a small, empty hovel that at one time might have been a slaver's holding pen where they spoke quickly and frankly. She reminded him in a small way of Hawke with her straightforward attitude. He admitted his mage status, showing her his magic outright. Lirene trusted her, and if he wanted Selby's help, he would have to give a little as well. She quieted, watching him extinguish the ball of light, and then spoke in a hard tone of her sister, a Circle mage made tranquil despite passing her Harrowing. 

"She was a good girl," Selby said, eyes flashing with anger. "She never had an issue following their rules, and they took her soul."

Anders could tell that her grief, while still very close to the surface, had given way to something much more vicious. It was a process he was intimately familiar with, though he wasn't quite ready to share the details of what happened to Karl. Instead, to further prove his determination and trustworthiness, he spoke of his dealings with Thrask, Feynriel, and the Starkhaven apostates. Selby admitted she had been working with him as well.

"Thrask mentioned you specifically. Your name never came up, but everyone in the underground knows who you are by description."

Anders wasn't sure if that was good or bad. It certainly made it easier for people like Selby to trust him. And having his name kept out of it meant the Templars couldn't ask after him directly. But the name… 'The Healer' they called him, as if he was some three copper novel "save the day" hero. He felt less like it every day.

"We pass messages through tavern wenches and gutter rats. They're always looking to make a bit of coin."

She gave him the names of a few boys, including Lirene's, who were happy to run ciphers. And, after a crash course in their code, she sent him on his way, telling him she'd be in touch. He'd wanted to stay to talk more, but Selby promised he'd be hearing from her. After all, she'd said, everyone who had need of him knew where to find 'The Healer'.

Two weeks later, exchanging only the barest information about the underground with Thrask through Norah, a waitress at the Hanged Man, Selby finally sent him a message dropped off by a dirty urchin no older than seven. He decoded it quickly. There were three mages that were coming through the underground tonight and he was needed. In the message were explicit encoded instructions on where to go, along with a crudely drawn map. He sent the boy back to Selby to let her know she could count on him, and packed a bag.

He'd been thinking about what he used to take with him when he left the Circle: coin, food stolen from the kitchens. Anything else would be a burden. Though Varric hadn't yet managed to bring up the bulk of their find from the Deep Roads, Anders still had quite a bit left over from the initial haul. It helped that he didn't eat much and that Hawke enjoyed bringing him lyrium potions. Anders hoped he wasn't getting them from his lady friend supplier. He didn't have much time to be jealous, thinking about Hawke lying in the arms of some woman for lyrium, and was just about ready to leave, blowing out the last candle.

"Anders!"

Anders jumped, staff out and ready as he turned, but stopped himself seeing Hawke on his threshold. "Andraste's flames," he breathed. "Hawke, don't do that." His anxiety with his upcoming task already had him on edge, and his heart beat wildly in his chest.

"Are you sure he's able to assist us? More likely he'll lose control of that spirit inside him and turn into an abomination."

Anders felt his skin crawl. He knew that voice, and glancing to just behind Hawke, just visible in the darkness, was Fenris. He stood with his arms crossed, scowl on his face. Anders didn't have time to argue with him, nor wonder where Fenris had learned of Justice. A spiral of hurt, something like betrayal, began to form in the back of his mind and he shoved it away brutally. No time for this. If Hawke shared his secrets with someone who held no apparent like for him, he would deal with that later.

"Fenris," Hawke said, in the same tone he used to quiet Carver, though it did nothing to improve Anders' mood. "Catch you at a bad time?" Hawke asked, noting the pack Anders was carrying.

"I was on my way out to meet someone." Not technically a lie.

"The viscount's son's been taken," Hawke said. "We could use a hand. Some mercenary group called the Winters is going to find him and they don't sound friendly."

Anders frowned. He'd already promised Selby. His mind was already made up to aid her and the underground. She swore him to secrecy, trusted him. And while Anders thought he could perhaps trust Hawke with this, he most certainly wouldn't ask him to put his life in danger. Hawke was trying to be someone in the town, trying to gain coin and favor and status. To involve him would be to put him at risk. Not to mention he couldn't politely ask Fenris to leave so they could have a conversation and expect the elf to go willingly.

"I have a prior engagement that cannot be delayed. My apologies."

The words hurt to say, and the disappointment on Hawke's face hurt even more.

"I'm sorry," Anders said. "If I could-"

"We could use your help." Hawke's voice was even, betraying no emotion.

The thought of Hawke going up against a mercenary group with only Fenris at his back was something else Anders filed away. He had no time and even less energy for these distractions, and he was getting impatient. Or perhaps it was Justice.

"I know. And if it were any other night, when I didn't… I'm sorry, Hawke."

"Let us go," Fenris said, his annoyance apparent enough for both him and Hawke. "The mage does not wish to help."

Anders gritted his teeth. The way Fenris said 'the mage' reminded him of Templars, seeing them not as people, but things. Robes walking around, willing and empty vessels for demons with no personality, no life. He felt his anger flare, but closed his eyes briefly, willing it away. Not now. Not here.

"Perhaps Merrill then," Hawke agreed. He nodded at Anders. "Good luck with your visit."

"And you with your rescue," Anders replied.

Fenris turned sharply on his heel and started down the steps. Hawke's eyes lingered on Anders, showing the hurt he felt, and Anders very nearly reached out to him. Then he was gone. He allowed only a few seconds to collect himself before locking his clinic door and hurrying to a sewer passage that would let him into the Gallows.

He followed the slick, narrow stone stairs down, under the bay. At the bottom was only a drainage pipe, but he found the secret door Selby mentioned and pushed it open, slipping in. The blackness threatened to swallow him up. While the sewer allowed for moonlight through the grates above, the passage under the sea to the Gallows was unlit. A chill ran down his spine and he resisted the urge to light his staff at full force. Instead, he held out a hand, a small ball of white light forming in his palm. It was no brighter than a candle, but in the inky darkness proved to be more than enough.

Moving quickly now, he mentally counted his paces, taking this tunnel and that one, not wanting to end up in one of the many dead ends, or the passageway out that led to Sundermount and freedom. The tunnel widened, then opened into a cavern, insects – normal sized ones, thankfully – skittered along the floor and walls. He waited. Five agonizingly long minutes later he heard footsteps, and gripped his staff tightly. He relaxed only slightly when he saw Thrask, out of his Templars' uniform and wearing a simple tunic and trousers. His sword was still belted at his side though, and he was leading three frightened looking girls. The eldest couldn't have been more than seventeen, the youngest perhaps ten. They were dressed similarly, long brown tunics and skirts, broken leather shoes; nothing to denote that they were mages. The youngest one clutched a rag doll while the others had only the clothing on their backs.

"Listen to everything he says," Thrask was saying quickly and quietly. "And make as little noise as possible."

The eldest looked wary, but determined. She shook Thrask's hand. He allowed the other two to hug him, and Anders wondered if he thought of his daughter. He wanted to talk more to Thrask – exchanging letters was impersonal. He couldn't express his gratitude fully for what Thrask was doing. But there was no time.

"This way," Anders said quietly, and led them back the way he'd come.

The girls were frightened, and Anders could only imagine how they felt, putting their trust in a Templar and an unknown apostate. He'd never been involved in anything like this. His own escape attempts were always solo ventures. While he spoke with his friend Jowan about a few possible routes, he never brought him along, never wanted to get him into the trouble he knew might come. It was a good thing, too. His last attempt before the successful one had ended him a year in solitary confinement. 

_Focus._

If he thought about that now, here, underground with the sea above him, he would surely been the one in need of rescuing, not the other way around.

It took nearly an hour of quiet, quick travel to reach the passage that lead into one of the many shallow caves that outlet into Sundermount. Twice he had to stop and help the youngest up when she fell, healing her scrapes without a second thought. Anders extinguished the light, turning to the girls.

"Stay here. Don't make a sound. I need to make sure it's safe."

The eldest made a small noise of agreement, huddling the other two close to her, and Anders left them. He cast a scrying spell – one he was never good at but realized would come in handy now more than ever. Either the spell failed, or there was no one in the area. Rivaini mage techniques were almost lost on him, and he wondered briefly if Isabela would be able to provide him reading material on the subject. Anything that would help, he reasoned. He didn't see anyone in the darkness at least, nor hear anything but the sound of owls hooting. He returned to the girls and gestured for them to follow.

They walked silently through the moonlight, down a path to a waiting caravan. Selby's uncle, a tall, broad-shouldered man who would have made an impressive soldier in his day had he not lost his left arm in a battle, sat atop a turnip cart pulled by a mule. He looked at Anders, nodded, and gestured to the back.

"Under the 'ay," he grunted.

Anders climbed up, helping the girls as well, and made sure they were situated in a cramped compartment under a canvas sheet, hidden by the piles of hay on top. He pressed his pack into the eldest's hands. She looked up at him.

"To start your new life," Anders explained. "Whatever you do, don't go back to your families. Listen to him, stay quiet until he tells you to move. Keep your heads low and stay safe. Don't trust anyone. You have to look out for one another now."

"Andraste's blessings on you, Healer," she said, reaching out and gripping his hand.

Anders swallowed hard, nodded, and squeezed her hand. He stepped deftly off the cart and watched as Selby's uncle took them off into the night. His heart was pounding and he felt slightly dizzy, but it was a thrilling sort of excitement that filled him. He'd done his part, and there would be more that would need his help. Hopefully their luck would hold out and every trip would go as smoothly. 

Turning, he hurried down the mountain the long way, not willing to return to Kirkwall through the passages, lest he be seen emerging from the sewers. He hadn't asked the girls their names, or where they were going. Selby might have told him if he'd asked, but he wouldn't. Operating on a need to know basis was safest for all. If he got caught, if he was made tranquil, he wouldn't be able to be used to track them or any others down. 

Adrenaline pumping, he hurried his steps. The entire process took less than three hours, but he'd done it. And there would be more to come. It was good enough for now that he was doing something to aid those in the Circle, but he knew he needed to do more. The Circle needed to be abolished. Mages would never be truly free while they still had Templars at their backs. And with more reports out of the Gallows of mages being made tranquil, of 'accidents' that were clearly suicides, he wasn't sure exactly how much time he had left to make a true change.

-

A few days later he found Hawke at the Hanged Man, drinking and playing cards with Varric, Isabela and Fenris. He very nearly turned on his heel, but Isabela caught his eye and waved him over. Varric offered him a smile, while Fenris refused to acknowledge his presence. Hawke merely looked up before glancing back at his cards, smile fading. He stood, tossing his cards down and picking up his mug.

"Need another beer," he said, and escaped to the bar.

Anders felt that perhaps he deserved that. Hawke was scarce over the last few days, and inquiries with Varric indicated he'd had a run in with the Qunari. While the Qunari were currently occupying a compound in the docks, there hadn't been any issues with them that Anders heard about over the last several months they'd apparently been in Kirkwall.

"Want to be dealt in?" Isabela asked him cheerfully.

"I should go," Fenris said, placing his cards down. He drained his glass before addressing Varric. "Thank you for teaching me."

"Anytime," Varric said, lifting a hand.

Isabela leaned up, pulling Fenris down halfway so she could kiss his cheek before letting him go. Anders scowled, wondering how anyone could find Fenris amiable enough to touch him. But the gesture seemed to please Fenris, who blushed ever so slightly and crossed the crowded tavern to Hawke. Anders watched as Hawke turned to him. They spoke, Fenris not quite meeting his eyes, and Hawke clapped him jovially on the arm, avoiding the spiky armor. Anders watched Fenris leave before looking back at Hawke.

"Anders? Hello! Is Anders in there?"

Anders turned, Isabela looking at him. "What?"

"I was wondering if you were there or if that thing had taken you over again. You went someplace else for a moment."

"Justice is not a thing," he said defensively.

Varric gestured to the chair Fenris had vacated, and Anders sat heavily.

"So how would you describe him?" Isabela prodded, sitting back, crossing her legs. "Hawke was awfully candid about it."

"He's a spirit. He's… a friend." Anders really didn't want to talk about Justice, and was considering simply leaving. He would talk to Hawke another time.

"I thought mages weren't supposed to let spirits into their heads," Isabela jested.

"Like you ever follow rules," Hawke said gruffly, coming up behind Anders.

Anders looked up, and Hawke gave him a tight-lipped smile. Varric stood, seeming to understand.

"Come on, Isabela, I'll buy you a drink," he said gesturing to the bar.

"I've already gone one."

Varric widened his eyes a bit, inclining his head toward Anders and Hawke. Isabela's mouth formed a knowing 'Oh' and she stood as well.

"Boy talk. Got it."

Hawke settled down in Isabela's vacant seat next to Anders, and slid him a glass of wine. Anders took it, though he wasn't in the mood to drink. It seemed to be a peace offering of sorts. He never meant to upset Hawke, and if his friend was willing to talk, then forgiveness was hopefully soon to follow.

"Did it go well," Anders started. "With the viscount's boy?"

Hawke grunted, leaning forward, elbows on the table. He gathered the cards and began shuffling the deck absently. Anders watched him shuffle and bridge, and finally he took a sip of the proffered wine.

"Saemus was with a Qunari. Not a captive. But that Winters bitch decided to slaughter his friend anyway."

His tone was harsh. For a man who was so proficient in killing, he seemed to be strictly opposed to doing so unless it was entirely necessary.

"So I spoke with their Arishok," Hawke continued.

Anders felt a sudden apprehension mixed with a sort of admiration. "You spoke with the Qunari leader to tell him that a mercenary group killed one of his men? Are you insane?"

Hawke actually grinned. "Some would think so."

"So what happened then?" Anders made a face as Hawke began dealing the cards.

"Wicked Grace," Hawke said. "Songs are wild."

Anders sighed but picked up his hand. While he knew how to play, he'd never won. He supposed he owed it to Hawke, since his friend wasn't asking for details on his meeting. Not that Anders would have told him about the underground, but it was a relief to know they were still on good terms after that. "I always get a shit hand."

"You always have time for your luck to change," Hawke said, sipping his beer.

"I wish that were true."

Hawke shrugged. "Stick with me and it will."

Anders watched him flip over a card from the deck, and he reached out impulsively, touching a scar on Hawke's knuckle. Hawke paused as Anders traced it slowly. "I've never seen this one."

"Look at my hands often?" Hawke asked with an amused tone.

Anders blushed, realizing he was showing his cards, both metaphorically and literally. He sat back, pulling his hand closer to his chest. But the damage, it seemed, had been done. "You always wear gloves," he muttered.

"I got that one from my father. We were in a fight," Hawke said, tossing down a card. "Your turn."

Anders frowned and discarded before drawing three. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not. It was necessary. And to answer your earlier question, the Arishok wasn't happy. He barely acknowledged Ashaad's death, but I think he appreciated my telling him. Who knows with Qunari – they're too difficult to read. Even with Fenris translating."

Anders bristled unconsciously. Hawke frowned.

"I know you'll never be best friends," Hawke intoned as they continued to draw and discard. "But you could at least try to remain in the same room with one another for longer than a few minutes."

"Oh so it's on me then?" Anders asked, and it came out a bit more sharply than he'd intended. "He made his mind up about me the moment he knew I was a mage. He's the one that left when I came in to talk to you."

"No," Hawke said patiently, "it's not just on you. I simply dislike it when my friends don't get along."

Anders was, at least, bolstered by the fact that Hawke considered him a friend still. He supposed you couldn't experience the Deep Roads together and not come out closer for it. He remembered the conversation they had after, discussing mage rights. How Hawke had held him. He sighed. "I'll try to be civil. I can't promise anything more than that."

"That's all I ask. And," Hawke said, "I'll ask the same of him. No need for animosity in the group."

"We're a group now?" Anders asked, smirking.

"It sounds better in Varric's book," Hawke said, leaning back. He crossed an ankle over his knee, flipping a few cards in his hand. "Sort of like a crime-fighting team."

Anders pinched the bridge of his nose, but laughed. "Maker help us all."

"Angel of Death," Hawke said as Anders flipped a card over. "Show your hand."

Anders did, and he lost very badly. "At least I didn't bet anything." He took another sip of wine, smiling over the rim at Hawke.

"Another round, then."

They played cards and talked, Varric and Isabela coming to rejoin them. A few hours and several losing hands later, Anders begged his leave, thanking them for the evening.

"Anytime, Blondie," Varric assured him. "If you ever want a place to stay other than that hole you're living in, I can front you the coin for a room here."

"Thank you, Varric, but you've made the clinic nice and cozy for me already."

Varric snorted. "As cozy as you can get in Darktown without being a corpse, I suppose."

"I'll walk with you," Hawke said. "I suspect Mother will be wondering what I've been up to."

"Varric's right, you know," Isabela sighed, leaning forward, tossing a few cards down. "One day you'll realize a mother and a wife aren't one in the same."

"I'd rather have the former than the latter," Hawke said easily, bending down.

Anders averted his eyes as Hawke whispered something in her ear. Isabela laughed softly, and Varric caught Anders' eye. The look was sympathetic, but encouraging. He raised his eyebrows at Anders and gestured toward Hawke, a slight incline of his head. Anders shook his own rather insistently. He knew what Varric was suggesting, and refused to submit to it. He'd preferred to keep his feelings for Hawke as hidden as he could, rather than risk losing the friendship.

Hawke slung an arm around his shoulder, tossing a coin to Varric who caught it deftly. "Until tomorrow, my friend," he said, and Varric waved after him.

Anders enjoyed the closeness as they exited the Hanged Man, turning down an alley. Hawke was warm, and he smelled of rich brown ale and cheap soap. He was about to wrap his arm around Hawke's waist when a woman cried out from behind them. Startling, they broke apart, and before Anders could decide what to do, Hawke was off and running toward the sound of distress. He followed quickly. 

A woman dressed in Chantry robes was surrounded by a group of thugs. Hawke didn't hesitate, and Anders watched him duck a punch before throwing one of his own. Anders swore under his breath and cast a surreptitious spell, granting Hawke extra speed and protection. He removed his staff from his back but didn't use it for magic. Aurum was a strong metal, and it could bring down a man just as easily through physical force as it could from a spell. He caught one hard in the stomach with it before bringing his knee up into his face. The man stumbled back from the dual blows, clutching his middle. Anders swung his staff hard into the side of his head, knocking him to the ground where he lay unmoving.

He spun quickly but not fast enough to avoid the punch to his own stomach. He gasped, instinctively reaching out for the healing magic that would relieve him of the pain. Hawke was on his attacker a second later, grabbing him around the middle and tossing him bodily from Anders. He kicked him in the knee, a sharp cracking sound followed by the man's howl of pain as his leg snapped at an unnatural angle. He crumpled instantly, holding his hands up for mercy.

Hawke stood between Anders, the woman, and the rest of the group. Anders knelt down, surreptitiously healing the wound on the man's head, repairing the damage he'd just done. The man stirred, groaning softly as he opened his eyes.

"Get your wounded and go," Hawke growled. "Before I change my mind."

The thugs moved quickly, Anders stepping away as they collected the man he'd knocked unconscious and the one with the broken leg before disappearing. He looked to Hawke, who nodded at him approvingly, and then to the woman.

"I… thank you for your assistance," she said, obviously shaken.

"You're a bit out of your depth, Sister," Hawke scowled. "Isn't it a little late to be collecting alms for the poor?"

"I had to come to Lowtown to find the help I needed," she said, brushing off her robes. "To find someone of bloody skill… but also integrity."

Anders snorted. "You're better off looking for needles in haystacks."

"But it seems I've found two," she said earnestly. "After all, not many would come to a helpless Sister's defense."

Anders heard the clanking of armor and immediately stepped back. It was an involuntary response, and only his need to protect his friend kept him from instinctively running when he saw the Templar approach. He looked out of breath, perhaps chasing off more of the rabble.

"Not entirely helpless," Hawke said, arms crossed.

"Ser Varnell," she said, nodding before turning back to Hawke. "I have a charge who needs passage from the city. If you are willing and capable, meet me at my safehouse nearby." She handed him a scrap of parchment, which Hawke took. "I'd like to end this quickly." She turned, Varnell in tow, and left the alleyway.

"You're not seriously considering helping her," Anders said hopefully.

Hawke looked down at the address in his hand, then to Anders. "You're not the least bit curious as to who she might be trying to sneak out of the city?"

"It sure isn't a mage," Anders snapped back. "Not with her pet Templar there."

Hawke lifted an eyebrow. "And we've never met a Templar willing to help mages escape the Circle, have we?"

"I-" Damn him. "Hawke, did you ever stop to think that righting all the wrongs of Kirkwall might actually be the fastest way to get yourself killed?"

Hawke grinned. "Not with my trusty Healer at my side. Come on." He clapped Anders on the shoulder and fairly skipped away, hurrying after the woman.

Anders frowned, then sighed, following. "Damn him," he muttered, this time out loud.

The door creaked on its hinges as Hawke opened it. Varnell turned, sword raised, and Hawke growled, "Drop it, or lose the hand."

"Ser Varnell," the woman said, stepping in from a side door. She held up a hand to someone in that room, and closed the door partway before addressing them. "Thank you for coming. This is a delicate matter and I need someone of… limited notoriety who will not link this back to me."

Anders folded his arms over his chest. There was something horribly fishy about the entire setup, and he could feel Justice creeping up, warning him. It wasn't as though he could leave Hawke. His friend was intelligent enough, but horribly impulsive. It was a wonder he hadn't gotten himself arrested or worse already.

"If this is something illegal," Anders said, "we really do already have enough trouble."

"I should think you're about to have more. My name is Sister Petrice. This is my burden of charity." She waved toward the door.

Anders uncrossed his arms, reaching up to touch Hawke's shoulder as they both turned to look. A Qunari stepped from the other room. The sight of one indoors, towering head and shoulders over all of them would have been enough to be intimidating. Upon closer inspection, Anders realized the creature was bound, though not by his hands. He'd only heard stories about the brutality of what the Qunari did to their kin, but this was… disturbing. A large collar sat on his shoulders, chained around his arms and chest. His horns had been sawn off, a mask tied tightly to his face. Through the dimness of the room, Anders could barely make out his blank eyes behind the slits. But most disturbing of all, his lips had been sewn together, speckles of dried blood against the grey skin. Anders felt sick to his stomach.

"Would even a Templar bind a mage like this?" Petrice asked.

Anders was about to speak when Hawke stepped forward. He let his hand drop from his friend's shoulder, and said nothing. To lecture Petrice on Templar brutality now, when they were apparently outnumbered would be foolish. He held his tongue.

"He's a survivor of in-fighting amongst the Qunari and their Tal-Vashoth outcasts. I call him, 'Ketojin' a bridge between worlds."

"The Qunari have no use for names," Hawke said. 

"It doesn't matter," Petrice continued. "The viscount would see him returned to his brutal kin. I think he can serve a better purpose. Lead him from the city; let him be free. He can't be seen, either with you or in my care."

"I could appeal to the Arishok," Hawke said. "I've had dealings with the Qunari leader already."

Petrice hesitated, almost as if she was regretting her decision in choosing Hawke for this in light of the news. "No. You would doom this poor creature in bringing him back." She paused, crossing her arms, tapping a finger against her lips. "But knowing them is useful, I suppose. If they challenged you, that would confirm their barbarism. You are still right for this task."

"Chances are they would do that if they saw me in the streets with him," Hawke said. "He's not exactly easy to hide in the shadows, even in Lowtown."

"We should think about this," Anders said quietly, moving to speak as surreptitiously to Hawke as he could in such a small space.

"Why not get the Chantry's assistance?" Hawke asked. "A full company of Templars would give the Qunari pause."

"This must be done in secret," Petrice insisted. "My order will soon realize the threat the Qunari pose but in the meantime we must try to do what we can for those who wish to leave the Qun."

"It seems a bit cruel even so," Hawke continued. "He's chained and collared. That's no way to start a new life."

"And yet it's more than he has. My reach is limited," Petrice said, her patience growing thin. "His struggle is his own."

"Isn't that just typical of the Chantry's benefaction," Anders spat, unable to help himself. Hawke held up a hand to silence him, and Anders nearly walked out. Fists clenched, he missed the last of their conversation, trying to control the bubbling anger rising to the surface. Why he didn't just leave…

_Because he'll get himself killed without you._

Anders wasn't so self-deluded to think that Hawke couldn't handle himself. But the entire situation stank of something rotten. And he wasn't sure if Hawke realized it and was only playing dumb, or if his willingness to help anyone who needed it overshadowed his ability to spot a dubious situation.

Petrice gestured to a back room and Varnell led them to a trap door. Anders bristled as he passed the Templar, and lowered himself into the passage after Hawke and the Qunari. He recognized where they were almost at once and took the initiative, leading them through the dank Undercity.

"So what do you want to bet's waiting for us?" Hawke asked, and Anders felt relief that did nothing to quell his annoyance.

"I'm glad you saw it for what it was."

Hawke let out a mirthless laugh. "Lead the Qunari out of the city, don't tell the Arishok or the Chantry? I must've looked stupid or something to her." He looked up at the Qunari. "I don't know much about Qunari mages. Fenris spoke a little about them but didn't go into detail."

"How does an elf know about the Qunari?" Anders asked despite himself.

"The war in Tevinter. Or the island of Serehon," Hawke explained. "He talked about the battles."

"While demeaning the plight of mages elsewhere, I'm sure."

Hawke sighed. "There was a little of that, yes."

"How can you stand him? You're a mage, and he hates mages."

"He hates magisters," Hawke explained. "I wish you'd speak to him. Hearing it from him would mean more than having me try to describe it. And I'm not sure it's my place to discuss the intimate details of his past with you."

"Like you told him about Justice," Anders said flatly. He hadn't meant to bring it up in that way, but the fact that Fenris knew despite not having seen Justice emerge irked him.

"I didn't," Hawke bit back. Then he sighed. "Isabela asked about it when Fenris was present. I explained it as best I could, without going into any personal details, just like with Varric and my brother. He didn't ask about it further."

"But he knows," Anders said, and he tried to hold onto that curl of betrayal he felt, but couldn't. If he was going to be angry with anyone, it would be Isabela. And how fair was it to be angry with her, when he hadn't been forthcoming with his abilities after she'd seen them in the Deep Roads? Perhaps if he'd tried to explain afterward, it could've been avoided. But it sounded like Hawke did as much damage control as he could.

"He won't tell anyone," Hawke promised. "He has his own troubles to worry about, squatting in a mansion in Hightown, avoiding tax collectors and nosy neighbors. I'm more worried about Carver." And he nearly growled his brother's name.

The Qunari stopped suddenly, and Anders looked up. He'd been focused on the conversation and hadn't noticed the chokepoint.

"Flames take them," Anders swore under his breath.

Seven or eight men blocked their path, all armed with crude swords, their tatty leather armor banged up and attesting to their willingness to fight. The leader tapped a jagged Tevinter blade on his shoulder pad, clicking his tongue as he stepped forward.

"Look at this, boys. Undercity's feared by all but there's still no shortage of fools with coin who want to test it." He glanced from Anders to Hawke, then up at the Qunari. "What is this thing, collared like a dog-lord's bitch?" He spat on the ground then looked back to Hawke with a nod. "You some sort of Qunari lover? Maybe I should get rid of you and see who'll pay the most for your pet."

Anders already had staff in hand, but waited. Though they didn't seem the type, it was possible the men would show a lick of sense and back off. In front of him, the Qunari growled low in his throat. It was a dangerous, visceral sound.

"Uh," said another man, backing away. "I don't think it likes you threatening its master. Maybe we let this one pass."

Hawke let out a short laugh. "He's a smart one. What's he doing with you?"

The leader sneered. "You Fereldan scum think you're better than us, pushing us out of our homes and forcing us to live down here. You'd see us collared and bound like that thing."

Anders realized his previous hope of these men having more brains than brawn was a futile one. But before the man could even raise his sword, the Qunari pivoted, releasing a burst of energy with a punch to the man's face. The shockwave knocked Anders and Hawke off their feet. Anders felt the heat and smelled the smoke. He rolled to his side, sitting up, then helped Hawke upright, coughing through the dust. The Qunari had unleashed a fireball that instantly roasted the men, leaving them a pile of twisted bones and ash. 

"Maker's breath…" Hawke breathed as they staggered to their feet. The Qunari turned on them and Hawke stepped forward. "Do not attack," he ordered.

The Qunari growled but lowered its head and hands.

"I think he understands," Anders said, still coughing a bit.

The smoke cleared, but the scent of charred flesh made his stomach turn. Hawke led the way this time, keeping an eye on their charge, who seemed content to follow once again. Anders was glad when they reached the mouth of the cave. Some twenty feet away, a huge bonfire crackled. Large shapes moved in the shadows, and by the light Anders could see them clearly.

"Lovely. More Qunari," he said. "So much for getting him to freedom."

"If he wants to go," Hawke said, and Anders recognized that determined tone, "he will go."

Anders thought that perhaps his death would be different than this. In bed at the age of ninety, surrounded by family and a lot of cats. But the taint had taken away the first part of that, his mission to free the Circle mages the second, and the damned Wardens the third. At least he could take solace in the fact that he'd go down fighting, next to Hawke.

A particularly brutal-looking Qunari (and weren't they all?) came to stand in front of them. He crossed his arms over his bare chest, streaked with red war paint. His black iron helmet was designed to fit perfectly over his horns, and he glared at them through the slits.

"Hold, basra vashedan. I am Arvaarad and I claim possession of Saarebas at your heel."

Hawke looked up at the Qunari mage, who remained impassive. Anders reached back, taking hold of his staff. He moved slowly so as not to draw attention to himself, lest he provoke an attack that might be avoidable. They likely wouldn't be able to count on a similar swift defeat of this group.

"The members of his karataam were killed by Tal-Vashoth, but their disposal only leads here, to Saarebas and you."

"And I came, leading him from the other direction," Hawke said. "If someone left a trail, it wasn't me."

"Yet you are here with Saarebas," Arvaraad said. "His crime is his freedom, his leash held by unknowing basra."

Anders had no idea what 'basra' was but he was willing to bet his entire share of the Deep Roads treasure that it wasn't anything good.

Arvaraad was still speaking. "We will not allow that danger to continue. Let your own mages doom you – Saarebas will be properly confined."

Hawke took a step forward. Usually people would respond to the intimidation, but the Qunari either didn't notice or didn't care. They began to close ranks, spreading out slowly. Anders felt a prickling in his skull, Justice's warning.

"And if he doesn't want to go back?" Hawke challenged.

Arvaraad stepped forward, less than five feet from Hawke, who reached back for his staff at once. The Qunari beside him quavered a bit, but remained in place.

"Saarebas," Arvaraad spoke, "show that your will remains bound to the Qun."

Saarebas growled and sank to one knee. Anders wondered if didn't have more to do with the collar than the Qunari's own desires. 

Arvaraad smirked, as much as a Qunari could, Anders supposed. "He has followed you because he wants to be led. He is allowed no other purpose."

Anders had to close his eyes, breathing heavily, feeling Justice's anger.

_He is bound and given no choice!_

No.

_This isn't right! This is unacceptable!_

It wasn't right, but dying here and now for the life of one Qunari was not going to solve the plight of all mages everywhere. More likely they would die, their bodies left to the wild animals and Saarebas would be brought to the Arishok and killed. But Hawke was saying something, a passive fireball in his hand, and Arvaraad had finally stepped back, but only to draw his weapon.

_No!_

He heard himself cry, but it wasn't his voice. Somewhere behind him – for he'd leapt forward to block the blow – Hawke was calling out to him. His body moved quickly without his input; Justice was fully in control. He clung to consciousness, unwilling to black out, needing to stay focused even if he couldn't stop himself. The cries of the Qunari in their own language echoed in the night as he felt the magic leave his fingertips. One by one they fell to Justice's power.

"Anders!"

He opened his eyes, though he couldn't remember closing them. No idea how much time had passed, how long he'd fought, he found himself lying on his side, curled in the sand. The fire still blazed, both in the pit and in pockets on the beach where he'd likely attacked. He lifted his head to see Hawke kneeling in front of him, hand on his shoulder, helping him sit up.

"We won?"

Hawke gripped him by the chin, almost too harshly, and looked into his eyes. "Are you all right?"

Anders blinked. The memory was there, but muddy. Like a dream slipping away from him, the more he tried to focus, the further away it faded. "It was Justice."

"Are you all right?" Hawke asked again.

"Yes." Because he was, mostly. He felt tired, drained. But he was fully intact and so was Hawke.

Hawke released his chin and Anders glanced around as Hawke returned to Saarebas. The other Qunari lay dead, their bodies burnt and bleeding. He winced as he stood, brushing sand from his coat. Hawke had retrieved a metal rod from Arvaraad's limp hand. A jolt of blue light hit Saarebas and he stood, shaking his head, touching his temple.

"I am… unbound," he muttered, barely able to open his mouth from the stitches. "It is… odd. Wrong. But you are worthy of honor." He turned to face both Hawke and Anders. "You are now Basvaraad, worthy of following. I thank your intent… even if it was… wrong."

He started walking away, and Hawke followed. Anders stood for a moment, debating whether or not to follow. They paused on a low cliff, overlooking the sea. The sound of the waves muffled their conversation. With a sigh, Anders plucked his staff from the ground and trudged over, head feeling heavy and full.

"I won't let you do this," Hawke said indignantly. 

"Do what?" Anders asked.

"He's going to submit to the 'will of the Qun.' He's going to die."

"I was outside my karataam," Saarebas explained. "I may be corrupted. I cannot know. How I return is my choice."

Anders felt Justice push forth and he shook his head. "Of all the ridiculous, spineless, mind-controlled, senseless piece of shit arguments I've ever heard!" He had to turn away, to try to control Justice's rage.

"What comfort has freedom brought you, mage?"

Anders clenched his fists, grinding his teeth. Flashes of memory came to him, lightning-quick.

_Leaving the tower. Running from Templars._

_Being dragged back in chains._

_Looking over his shoulder. Hiding in the sewers._

_Karl's face as he begged for death over tranquility._

A flash of heat behind him brought him back to reality, but he could not stop himself from shaking in rage. Hawke put a hand on his shoulder and he jerked away, angry, though not at his friend. Hawke touched him again, and he submitted, allowing himself to be pulled a tight hug. He turned his face, cheek resting on Hawke's shoulder, watching as Saarebas burned from self-immolation.

It was just another failure. Just another mage committing suicide rather than attempting to leave their chains. That the mage was a Qunari didn't matter. No matter how many he saved, how many more would suffer and die? It was all hopeless in that moment. He felt tears well in his eyes, the fire becoming just a blur, and his breath hitched. He buried his face in Hawke's shoulder, and held tightly to him. He couldn't even explain it to him, not without putting Hawke in further danger. Not without betraying Selby's trust even though he was sure Hawke would be willing and Selby would eventually be grateful for the help. It wasn't something Anders would sacrifice. Knowing Hawke's penchant for bravado, the possibility of him being found and arrested or killed was too high. Or worse, seeing another friend made tranquil.

A warm, calloused hand came up, resting on the back of his neck and he looked up, sniffing. Hawke pressed his forehead to Anders', other hand gripping his arm.

"This isn't just about Saarebas," Hawke said quietly.

Anders shook his head, wiping his eyes. He was so tired.

"I'll stay with you tonight. In your clinic. Or you can come home with me," Hawke offered. "You can have Carver's bed."

It was said in a light, jesting tone, meant to make him laugh. He offered a feeble smile. "No." He stepped back, taking Hawke's hand and holding tight. "I just need a good night's sleep. Justice… takes a lot from me."

"Then let me at least walk you there."

The near-desperation in Hawke's voice, his own exhaustion and fears, and the knowledge of the corpses on the beach, and Anders could not refuse. He leaned heavily on his friend and allowed himself to be guided home.


	12. Chapter 12

Anders wrapped his coat tightly around himself, shivering as he left his clinic, and locked the door behind him. He wound his way through Darktown, frowning at the shabby state of shelters and the low-burning fires. How many down here would die from exposure? Open to the sea, which swelled with each icy rain, this part of Darktown was no place for anyone to try to live in the colder months. He had large, thick, heavy furs over his windows, not bothering to lift them even during the daytime. Any amount of light that streamed in was short lived anyway, the arrival of winter making itself well known. With every passing day, more came to his clinic to seek his help. He'd seen four bouts of the flu just that morning, and was thankful for his body's own natural magical defenses against illness.

The grey day faded quickly into dark night, and Anders could see his breath in white puffs as he emerged into the streets of Lowtown. He sloshed through the dirty snow even as more fell from the sky, swirling fast and heavy. He was Fereldan, used to the cold. And even though Kirkwall was warmer, he'd never spent a winter in a place like Darktown, where the biting wind would find you no matter where you hid. He quickened his pace, lowering his head as two people passed him, going the opposite direction. If the cold had one good thing going for it, it was that crime rate dropped drastically. But then, so did the living population.

Hightown was as crowded as Lowtown was empty. Nobles walked about bundled in their long coats, fur hats and leather gloves, doing a bit of evening shopping or heading to the Chantry's vigil. Anders avoided their haughty looks. Though his coat might have been considered haute-couture in Orlais, the feathers were looking ruffled, and no amount of elbow grease and decent soap could remove the stains he received at his clinic during the day and his travels through the sewers for the underground at night.

It had been several months since his first successful trip for the mage underground, and there had been dozens more. Some involved running a bit harder and faster than others, breaking the surface before Sundermount and hiding amongst garbage heaps or in warehouses. But he hadn't lost a single mage yet. The majority of his charges were children, and he was fine with that. He always gave them the same care package: two sovereigns, two loaves of bread, four apples and half a dozen potions both lyrium and elfroot. Part of him felt guilty, as the food mostly came from Varric after a night at the Hanged Man – "You're going to waste away to nothing!" – and the potions from Hawke, who told him that he'd gotten them from a mage called Solivitus in the Gallows market.

And now he was off again, not on a mission for Selby, who'd been quiet of late, but on a social call. Though the payments were still rolling in from their Deep Roads trip, with the evidence of ownership in a will that had been tucked away, Hawke was able to purchase the old Amell estate in Hightown for his mother. It took a few weeks in which Hawke's presence was scarce from Lowtown and the Hanged Man to get it all cleaned up. Anders received a note a week prior that was written with some irony in Hawke's hand.

_Messere Garrett Hawke formally invites you for a First Day celebration at the exalted Amell Estate in Hightown where he and his mother, Leandra Hawke, nee Amell, will be in attendance._

_Please send word with your response, and indicate if you prefer chicken or fish._

_Yours truly,_

_G. Hawke_

Then, hastily written on a scrap of paper:

_Sorry, Mother's making me send out these ridiculous invitations to everyone she knows and I'm not about to spend the evening hobnobbing with people I've never met who want to marry me off to their daughters. Come see the house for a First Day celebration/housewarming party. I promise to keep the holier-than-thou attitude at bay._

_Don't leave me with these people, Anders. If you don't show up, I'll send Isabela and Varric to kidnap you._

_-Hawke_

Anders believed it, too. Which was why he was knocking on the door of a large mansion in Hightown, kicking snow from his boots as he waited. The door opened, and Bodahn greeted him.

"Welcome, messere, to the Amell estate!" he said cheerfully. "May I take your coat?"

It was warm and cozy inside. The front hall could likely fit most of his clinic, and the ceiling was at least twice the height. Anders frowned, immediately feeling out of place. Somewhere further inside, the sounds of a string quartet and a few dozen people. Hawke's friends?

"Sure, Bodahn. Thank you. How's Sandal?"

Bodahn's eyes lit up with the question. "Oh he's quite fine, thank you ever so much for asking. They're looking after us quite well here. After what you all did for my son in the Deep Roads, serving here is the least I could do. But if you ever have need of me, you only have to ask."

Anders gave him a quick but genuine smile. "I may have use for his enchanting skills in the future. I'll keep that in mind. Is… Hawke around?"

"He's making the rounds in the main hall. But he did instruct me to bring you to a private ballroom with the others."

At least there was that, he thought. "Please."

Bodahn led him through a side stairwell and down a hall. The sounds of the main party grew fainter, but a more familiar ruckus could be heard up ahead. Bodahn opened the double doors, and Anders felt relieved to see familiar faces. Isabela and Varric sat laughing at a table, two bottles of wine, while Fenris sat with them, smiling and shaking his head. Merrill was curled in a bay window, looking outside at the falling snow. Two other people he'd never met, though one he knew vaguely by appearance only, stood talking slightly apart from the others.

"Blondie, you made it!" Varric called, looking up. "Bodahn, make sure Hawke knows he's here."

Bodahn bowed and left, shutting the door behind him. Varric stood and crossed the room, clapping him on the back.

"Since our host is downstairs likely being told for the nth time how wonderful it is to have the Amells back in Hightown, I'll make the introductions. This is Aveline Vallen, Captain of the Kirkwall City Guard and notorious pain in the ass-"

Aveline rolled her eyes but shook Anders' hand. "A pleasure."

Anders wondered if she said everything with that tone of derision, or if it was just his shabby appearance that caused it. He'd had heard talk of her from both Hawke and the others, how she hailed from Ferelden as well, losing her husband to the Blight. She was a hard woman, he could see that right from the off. Either she put people at ease with the handshake, or perhaps it was just Justice's latent approval of a woman of the law.

"And Sebastian Vael, prince of Starkhaven," Varric said gesturing to the man.

Anders tried not to frown as he shook Sebastian's hand. He was tall, tanned, and handsome. His hair was perfectly coiffed and he smelled of mint aftershave.

"It's a pleasure," he said in a thick Starkhaven accent. "Hawke's spoken a lot about you."

"All good things, I hope," Anders replied. "Though I can't say the same for you."

It was perhaps a cruel statement to make, but the curl of jealousy he felt was undeniable. How did Hawke know a prince? And more importantly, why was he at the party, in this room with Hawke's friends instead of downstairs with the rest?

"That's just as well," Sebastian said. "I'm not technically the prince of Starkhaven yet. Hawke helped me with a bit of… trouble I was having and we've kept in touch since. Normally I'd be at the Chantry with the other affirmed brothers, but I have to admit, receiving an invitation came as something of a bit of relief. The grand cleric isn't too pleased with me for not renewing my vows."

Anders felt a small bit of comfort in that. A brother of the Chantry. While his feelings for the Chantry – and the grand cleric – were less than warm, Sebastian would have no ulterior motives for accepting Hawke's invitation. It was stupid, he knew, to have any possessive feelings toward Hawke. Then again, he hadn't seen him in nearly a month, only exchanging perfunctory letters as Hawke was kept busy readying the estate after its purchase. Perhaps his feelings for Hawke had gone.

"The man of the hour!" Varric said as the door opened.

As Hawke walked in, Anders realized that in fact, his feelings had not gone. Almost annoyingly he found they'd doubled. He'd never seen Hawke out of his black pants and blood red, sleeveless robes, not counting the one time directly following the Deep Roads expedition. He still wore the black pants and boots, but his shirt was forest green, visible behind a long, floor length black coat that flared at the ends. A white sash tied around his waist, with a decorative charcoal grey cravat around his throat. The look of nobility suited him, and Anders quickly suppressed his desire.

"Anders!" he greeted warmly, and immediately pulled him into a hug.

Anders closed his eyes, returning it. The familiar feeling of warmth and comfort, the smell of fire and smoke and magic surrounded him. Hawke clapped him on the back and then held him at arm's length.

"Varric's right, you're too skinny. Dinner's going to be served soon. I think I've convinced Mother to let me join you all here though instead of with her friends downstairs. It's a mad house."

"So when's the wedding?" Isabela asked.

"What wedding?" Merrill asked, perking her head up. "I do love weddings."

Hawke scowled. "Don’t start. Mother's waited a long time for this and I don't mind giving up an evening so she can be happy again. She's sacrificed too much. I'll thank you to stop making fun of her."

Isabela rolled her eyes. "I was making fun of you, idiot." But she smiled, and tossed down her cards before taking Fenris's coins.

Hawke grinned at Anders. "Have you been given the tour yet?"

"No, I've only just arrived," he said quietly.

"Well come on then!" Hawke took him by the arm and waved at the others. "Dinner soon!" he said again. "I'll be up in a bit!"

He pulled Anders out of the room, letting the door shut behind him.

"You seem… happy," Anders said.

"And slightly drunk," Hawke agreed. "It's the only way to make it through this without wanting to bust a few heads."

Ah, there was the Hawke he was used to. "What's it like down there?"

"I would suffer another month in the Deep Roads before I willingly host another party like this. If I have to hear one more story about how my mother ran off with a 'useless, no-good Ferelden apostate' I might just burn the whole house to the ground with a firestorm."

Anders winced. "I'm sorry. No one should have to listen to that."

Hawke pulled him inside a bedroom. A mabari was curled on the hearth rug; Anders remembered seeing him a few times before. Lucky, he thought, he gets to stay in the bedroom instead of being forced to socialize. The room was large but much cozier than the rest of the house. The desk was messy, strewn with papers and books. A chest sat open, personal items tossed this way and that. A pair of smallclothes and a robe were pooled on the floor by the bed, while a plate with crumbs sat on the nightstand.

"Your room?" Anders ventured.

"If you really want the tour, I'll give you one after the guests leave. I just needed an excuse to get away from all of it. Sorry," he added, with a slight grin.

Anders smiled despite himself. It was comforting to know that Hawke trusted him. "Shirking your duties as a nobleman of Kirkwall. What will they say?"

"'They' can shove it," Hawke said, moving to a side table. He poured two snifters of some amber colored liquid from a crystal decanter and handed him one. "I am sorry I haven't seen you in a while. How have things been?"

"Busy," Anders said truthfully. He sniffed the drink, then sipped.

"You did that like a real nobleman," Hawke jested.

Anders made a face. "Just making sure you aren't trying to poison me."

"It's Antivan brandy, imported. From Antiva," Hawke said, then laughed.

Anders shook his head, chuckling. "How drunk are you?"

"I've had four glasses of wine and two fingers of brandy," Hawke admitted. "I'm not quite where I need to be to handle the amount of pretentiousness that's currently downstairs. But I suppose if that's my biggest problem right now, I'm doing fairly well for myself." He gestured to a sofa in the corner.

Anders sat, trying not to think about how close Hawke was when he sat as well. Their knees were touching, but Hawke didn't seem to pay it any mind.

"Have you spoken to Thrask at all?" Hawke asked, lowering his voice though the thick stone walls would ensure they weren't overheard, likely at any volume.

"Off and on."

"We haven't talked," Hawke admitted. "Though Varric says he comes by the Hanged Man to drink and play cards. Less pressure there than at the Blooming Rose."

"I thought Templars were forbidden from brothels anyway," Anders said.

"But when has that ever stopped them?"

"True enough."

"Oh!" Hawke said suddenly. "I have something for you." He clapped Anders on the knee and used him to push himself from the sofa.

Anders frowned. "I'm all stocked up on lyrium, Hawke."

"No, this is better," Hawke assured him. He crossed the room and opened a red and gold wardrobe. 

A few articles of clothing hit the ground and Anders shook his head. His friend might be nobility now with an estate and coin, but his housekeeping habits would put the scruffiest smuggler to shame. Hawke emerged triumphant, carrying something silver. Something familiar.

"Is that…" He was about to stand when Hawke deposited the dragon's head into his lap.

"From your staff that you lost in the caves," Hawke confirmed.

Anders sat his glass aside and picked it up. It had been cleaned up and polished, gleaming in the flickering light of the fireplace. He ran his fingers over the cool metal.

"Don't know why you didn't take it with you when we left," Hawke said, sitting back down next to him.

"It was broken," Anders recalled. "Destroyed by Decimus."

"But you said a friend had it made for you. It's special, right?"

"Nathaniel. He… was a friend in the Wardens," Anders confirmed. That Hawke had returned to the cave, searched the rubble to find it, and then went to the trouble of cleaning it up… He swallowed hard and looked at him. "Thank you. This means a lot."

Hawke shrugged, but Anders could tell he was pleased. "It was easy to remember where. I mean, it's not as though it's every day I get attacked by a blood mage hell bent on killing me and my friends."

"Just Coterie, carta, Qunari. Sometimes walking corpses and giant spiders," Anders offered. He set the headpiece aside carefully.

"Well I am an important person," Hawke laughed. He knocked back the rest of the brandy and set his glass aside, hand coming to rest on Anders' knee again.

Anders wondered if he was doing it on purpose, or merely because he was drunk. The warm weight and the close contact were doing things to him, and felt his stomach tighten slightly when Hawke squeezed.

"So," Anders said. "How are… things?"

Hawke was looking at him, head tilted slightly. "I'm tired of talking about myself," he said after a moment. "That's all anyone downstairs wants to do. I'm not Hawke to them. I'm Garrett, son of Leandra Amell. They've even addressed me as such. If I took the name, I'd be a lord. Can you imagine it? Lord Garrett Amell." He made a face.

Anders shrugged a little. "Well, it does sound a bit pompous."

"Not to mention I'm a Hawke. I'll always be my father's son."

Did he sound… sad? Anders couldn't tell. Months of friendship with him and he was still an enigma. He covered Hawke's hand with his own. "You don't talk about him."

"There's not much to say," Hawke said. "I suppose I'm just maudlin. He died close to First Day, a week after. Years ago."

Anders frowned. "I'm sorry. This must be a hard time for you."

"I killed him."

The confession took the wind out of him. Anders blinked, not knowing what to say. He never entertained the idea of something like that happening. He thought of his own father briefly – the man who'd turned him to the Templars. Would he have been able to kill him?

_Yes._

It was a knee-jerk but fair reaction. But Hawke's father hadn't done the same. And what was worse than turning your own child in to the Circle?

"I'm sorry," Anders said again, quietly.

"I'm not. He turned to blood magic. It was a betrayal. His death was necessary." Hawke's voice was hollow, the light in his eyes fading. He blinked and stood, crossing the room to fill his snifter again before returning to sit next to him. "I found him working spells shortly after Bethany's suicide. I always liked watching him. I learned a lot just from sitting back and letting him cast. But then he sliced his palm and I couldn't let that go on. What if the demon took him over? What if he attacked Mother? Or Carver? Carver could swing a sword, but this was years ago; he was still green. He was no match for a demon."

Anders stayed quiet, letting Hawke drink and talk. Hawke pulled the cravat from his neck, tossing it aside irritably. His eyes were focused on the brandy in his glass as he sat forward, elbows on his knees.

"So I confronted him. Stupid, stupid thing to do. More likely should've snuck up on him while he slept. Would've avoided all these," he said, flexing his free hand. The scars were faded but visible.

"Is that how you got this?" Anders asked, reaching up and touching Hawke's cheek. His fingers brushed the long scar on his face, just below his eye.

Hawke shook his head. "No." He took a sip of brandy. "That was from Mother."

For the second time that evening, Anders found himself without words. Before he could ask, Hawke was talking again.

"She saw me standing over Father's body. I was already pretty badly hurt. Carver heard her screaming and came running out to the barn. Good thing too. If he hadn't been there, the dagger that did it might have taken my eye instead of just scarring it. He pulled her off me just in time."

Anders frowned. Leandra had seemed like such a calm, polite woman. Or had she? He remembered the morning they were to deliver Feynriel, the shouting from inside the Lowtown apartment. She was livid that Hawke had used magic on Carver. Perhaps it was a constant source of fear for her that he would turn on them the way her husband did.

"I had to show her father's journal to convince her that he was using blood magic. It… was to an end, though. He was planning on attacking the Chantry in Redcliffe. It was the closest one to us with the most Templars. The one in Lothering wouldn't have sent a message he was trying to convey. There were half a dozen Templars there at any given time, the village was so small. He made a deal with a demon for power."

"I… I'm sorry, Hawke." He wasn't sure what else to say, and instead, removed the glass from Hawke's hand, who let it go willingly. Slowly, he pulled Hawke into a hug.

They sat like that for a while, Hawke resting his head on Anders' shoulder. "I'm glad you told me about Justice right away," he said finally, muffled.

Anders shivered, Hawke's breath coming in warm puffs against his neck. "I didn't have a choice."

"You did. You could've told me to sod right off."

Anders laughed lightly. "I suppose I could have. But you helped me. That night. With Karl." He swallowed.

Hawke sat up, hands on Anders' shoulders, steadying himself as he looked in his eyes. "I am sorry about Karl."

"It's passed."

"No. He… meant a lot to you. And we never really talked about him. I think I've been selfish, not giving you someone to talk to about that. It's clear you loved him."

Anders wondered when this would come up. He'd hoped it would've been much later. Or not at all. "He… we were lovers. When it was just us, we could pretend that the world didn't exist. It only ever lasted a night and then we'd have to return to routine in the morning. But it was a nice distraction. He was the first."

Hawke nodded, leaning in, pressing his forehead to Anders'. One hand slid up from his shoulder to the back of his neck. It was an insanely intimate position and Anders felt vulnerable, naked. Hawke's eyes were shut.

"You did the right thing. You did what you could for him."

"I… I really don't want to talk about this," Anders said, his voice coming out in a whisper.

"I'm sorry," Hawke replied, just as quietly. He sighed and pulled away, standing. "This was supposed to be a happy celebration."

Anders stood as well, taking his hand. "It is. Thank you for trusting me."

"Carver and Mother are the only ones who know that story. Of my father. Everyone else thinks he was a hero, and he was," Hawke added. "He was a good man. A great man. And a powerful mage. He just… went down the wrong path. The Chantry is wrong," he said firmly. "The Templars are wrong. But blood magic. That way leads to nothing but ruination."

"Is that why you keep Merrill close?" Anders asked.

Hawke entwined his fingers with Anders'. "Actually yes," he said. "She's also been exchanging letters with Carver, she told me. Prig as he is, he might actually be doing her some good. I'm sure he'd just be thrilled to hear me admit that too. She seems to have a hold on the magic, but the demon she deals with, it's not like you and Justice."

"Justice and I spoke for months before I made the decision to let him in," Anders said. "He and Nate – Nathaniel – talked about it for some time as well. When it was time for him to give up Kristoff's corpse, I offered. I had to convince him," Anders stressed. "Justice doesn't know how to manipulate. He simply exists as a form of righteousness and integrity."

"You're good for one another. But… it's worrisome. I don't want to lose you to him."

"You won't," Anders said at once, and he wasn't sure if it was a lie or not. Most days he was able to stay in control, even running the underground. Despite the reports coming from the Gallows, the whispers of Meredith's strong hand, and an even darker rumor of something worse. "I promise."

"Don't make promises you can't keep," Hawke said harshly, then apologized. "I worry about you. Just like the others."

"Like you worry about the others, or how the others worry about me?" Anders asked, bemused. He couldn't imagine it was the latter; Fenris didn't give a whit about him.

Hawke laughed. "How I worry about the others. Though Varric's been known to mention your state of health. He harps on about it sometimes after you leave in the evening."

Anders smiled a bit, thinking it was nice though unnecessary that Varric was so concerned. "You don't need to worry about me, Hawke."

"Yes I do. You're my friend," Hawke said, tugging him toward the door. "Speaking of which, you should stay in a guest room tonight. It's supposed to drop cold enough to freeze the sea."

Anders doubted that, but said nothing. 

"The others are likely staying as well," Hawke continued, dropping his hand once they stepped into the hall. He led him back slowly to the ballroom. "I'll let Varric convince you."

Hawke opened the door and previous evidence of his somber and serious mood disappeared almost at once as the others welcomed them back. Varric glanced at Hawke's cravat-less neck and shot a meaningful look at Anders. Anders felt his eyes widen and he shook his head quickly, able to read Varric's expression. Varric rolled his eyes and sighed, then gestured him over for a game of cards. Dinner was served shortly after, Bodahn mentioning that Hawke's mother might like to see him downstairs before dessert.

"She said an important guest's arrived."

"If it's the viscount," Hawke said, slicing his chicken breast, "tell him that his crown looks ridiculous and he should pay less attention to me and more to his own son."

Everyone laughed a bit, even Sebastian though he hid his smirk behind his napkin, while Aveline merely sighed and shook her head. Bodahn bowed.

"Very good, messere, but it's not the viscount."

"I'll be down directly after dinner then, before dessert," Hawke promised.

Bodahn left.

Dinner was loud and rowdy, and while Anders didn't join in as enthusiastically, he was reminded of mealtimes with the Grey Wardens. Despite their seriousness, most of them had become close. At least Varric didn't act like a typical dwarf, overindulging and belching at every opportunity. Anders shook his head at a very raunchy joke Isabela told, causing Sebastian to blush and Aveline to sigh with disgust.

"Get a sense of humor," Isabela said, throwing a crouton at her.

"I've exchanged it for pride and dignity," Aveline shot back.

Isabela mimicked her words silently, mocking her. "Must be why you haven't gotten laid since you've been here."

"Unlike you, I don't open my legs for every ruffian that wanders by."

"Shame," Isabela said, "Hawke's quite good in the sack."

"And that's enough," Hawke said. "Come on, it's supposed to be a happy celebration! You two are like feral cats locked in a cage."

"If you make a joke about pussy," Aveline started, glaring at Isabela.

Isabela laughed. "Now who's being crude?"

Before Hawke could intervene again, the door opened. Bodahn stepped in, and was about to speak when a tall figure wearing armor followed him in. Heads turned. Anders felt his heart drop into his stomach. Templar uniform. His first thought was to run. To hide under the table. The next was to toss a fireball immediately before the Templar could cast a cleansing spell and rip his mana from him. But Hawke moved first, standing, fists clenched.

"Carver," he growled.

"Brother," Carver greeted, with an irritating smile.

"Hi, Carver!" Merrill said, waving from her spot near the end of the table. "Did you come to join us? We're almost through but I hear dessert is going to be chocolate cake with blackberries. In winter, in the Free Marches. Can you imagine?"

Carver's smile turned warm as he addressed her. "Sadly I can't stay. I only came by to see my mother and brother before I need to return to the Chantry's vigil. Sebastian," he said, with a nod.

Sebastian returned the nod, but said nothing.

Hawke crossed toward him, and while his voice was low when he addressed Carver, he was heard easily in the silence of the room. "You've got a lot of nerve."

"It's my house as well," Carver said.

"No. No it is not," Hawke hissed. "I went on the expedition, I got the will. Mother petitioned the viscount and curried favor with old friends. I ran the slavers off with help from MY friends, then I spent the last six weeks cleaning and repairing everything. This is Not. Your. House."

The silence was deafening. Carver's face had turned red in anger. Everyone except Merrill and Isabela were looking awkwardly at their plates, the former looking on in sympathy with the latter leering with interest.

"Well," Carver said at last. "Well, I suppose I shall take my leave then."

"Let me walk you out," Hawke growled.

Carver turned and Hawke shoved him a bit, not caring at all that he was in Kirkwall finery, his brother in full plate. Bodahn gave a bow to the group before following and shutting the door.

"Well," Varric said after a minute, "nothing like a happy family reunion during the holidays. Isabela, pass the wine bottle."

They'd just started on dessert when Hawke finally came back. He resumed his seat, and Anders, who sat at his right side, leaned over.

"Everything all right?"

"Except that my brother is a horse's ass, yes."

It was clear from his tone and his demeanor that he wanted the matter dropped, so Anders dropped it. Eventually the joviality returned and multiple helpings of dessert were served. Hawke invited them all to stay the evening. Varric and Isabela agreed at once.

"I should get back," Aveline said. "Patrol comes very early in the morning."

"And I should see if the grand cleric needs my assistance," Sebastian said. He shook Hawke's hand, clapping him on the shoulder. "Thank you, it was a lovely party. Come by the chantry soon and we'll talk."

Hawke walked them out and returned as Merrill was finishing her last piece of cake.

"I should go as well," she said. "I promised Arianni I'd help her in the market tomorrow."

"Give her my best," Hawke replied, and pulled Merrill into a hug.

Merrill grinned, leaning up to wrap her arms around Hawke's shoulders. She whispered something to him, and he looked almost relieved, and nodded. Anders wondered what it was about, and was glad when jealousy did not rear its ugly head. It seemed almost like they were developing a sibling-like relationship. Anders just hoped it didn't end as badly as Hawke's relationships with his actual siblings. Fenris stood as well.

"I'll see to it that she makes it home."

"Oh Fenris," Merrill said. "You're such a gentleman!"

Fenris scowled. "Hawke," he said, and they shook hands before he took his leave, Merrill bouncing at his side.

Hawke turned back to the remaining three. "Well. Anders?"

Anders weighed his options. He could return to the clinic where the wind howled through the flaps in the furs covering the windows to curl up on a cot – albeit a somewhat comfortable one – or he could stay here. In a house with four walls, a soft feather bed, fire and blanket. It wasn't fair to the other refugees, the ones who were stuck in Darktown, who couldn't afford blankets or food. His irritation with the Chantry began to rise. What did it say that the impoverished of Kirkwall would sleep in a sewer before taking refuge in a warm Chantry building?

"If you don't stay here," Varric said, "at least take my room at the Hanged Man for the night. It's too cold otherwise."

Anders sighed and relented. "All right. I'll stay. But just tonight."

Hawke grinned and led them out, directing Varric first, then Anders to the guest rooms. Anders stood briefly in the doorway, then carefully followed Hawke and Isabela.

_What are you doing?_

He didn't rightly know. Did he want to see if Hawke would invite her to his room? Did he really want to know if their relationship, even if it was only sexual, had continued past that time on the Deep Roads trip? They stopped outside Hawke's door, and Anders paused to listen.

"Not tonight," Hawke said.

Isabela tutted. "Why not?"

"Because I'm definitely not in the mood."

"You're a spoilsport."

Hawke sighed. "We should end it."

"End what, tiger?"

"This."

"The sex?"

"I don't want it to get complicated," he explained.

"It's only complicated if you let it get that way."

Anders thought she sounded annoyed.

"I just don't think it's a good idea anymore, all right?"

"Suit yourself. It's your loss."

Hawke let out a laugh. "I know. I'll cry myself to sleep every night."

"You know where to find me if you change your mind."

Anders slunk back to the shadows as Isabela passed, and then peered around the corner.

_Shit._

Hawke saw him. Tilted his head inquisitively.

"Sorry," Anders muttered. "Got lost. Sleep well."

He hurried away, hoping Hawke didn't realize he'd been eavesdropping. Feeling nervous but lightheaded with hope, he disrobed and climbed into the guestroom bed. The mattress was extremely soft, the room very warm. And Hawke, it seemed, had ended his casual trysts with Isabela. The thought shouldn't have excited him, nor should he have been happy when the decision seemed to be a somber one. But still, as he drifted to sleep, he couldn't help but wonder if his chances at changing his relationship with Hawke had just increased.


End file.
